The War Of Light And Shadow
by Freddie23
Summary: In a world changed by the rising of power in Mordor, Legolas gets entrusted with the life of a young boy. But he gets more than he bargained for as he must fight for his own life, for Aragorn's life and for the very future of Middle Earth. AU. Not slash. Complete.
1. The End of Days

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**Summary: In a world changed by the rising of the power of Mordor and Sauron, Legolas gets entrusted with the life of a young boy. But he gets much more than he ever bargained for and, in a world tainted with Shadow, he must fight for his own life, for Aragorn's life and for the very future of Middle Earth. **

**OIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIO**

**A/N: Here we are again. Welcome to 'The War of Light and Shadow', my brand new Lord of the Rings fanfiction. This is just the prologue and the chapters will get longer and more involved as we go. I do hope you enjoy. Reviews would be much appreciated.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 1**

**Prologue – The End of Days**

**OIOI**

It came quickly, the end of the world.

Even the wisest could not have hoped to have foreseen how quickly and horribly the end would come.

First came the increased attacks on all the flourishing kingdoms comprised of the beings of light and goodness. The creatures of evil simultaneously and mercilessly attacked the mighty kingdoms of Men, Elves and Dwarves with malice never before seen even by the most ancient of those races, who had seen great wars too many times to be ignorant of the power of the rising Shadow.

It threw the kingdoms, even those with the mightiest armies with which to defend themselves, out of balance. The Darkness' relentless attacks lowered their defences, which for the most part had grown slack and complacent in the years of relative Enemy inactivity; it had crept through those cracks, seeped into their lands and hearts until it saturated everything good and pure once in the world.

The ultimate aim of the Shadow in these initial assaults though was purely distraction; taking the eyes of the powerful and wise away from the bigger picture, drawing their gazes away from what restlessly stirred in the East.

So wholly engaged were the kingdoms of good with the stepping up of Orc activity within and about their realms that it went almost entirely unnoticed that the Darkness, which for centuries had been left to fester deep inside the cursed Black Lands of Mordor, was creeping steadily across the fair and free lands of Middle Earth.

By the time the Free Peoples noticed the Shadow's true intentions, it was far too late. The might of Mordor had grown impossibly strong.

Against all expectation, it was the kingdoms of the long-lived Elves that first weakened under the raging armies Shadow. The Orcs and other creatures allied to Sauron, Lord of Mordor, held a particular, unrestrained rage against the pure Firstborn, the antithesis of every single thing they stood for; the light to their darkness. And their newly dominant master poured considerable resource into the destruction of the Elves, enjoying watching their downfall even as he remained frustratingly trapped in the Black Lands.

Without the ancient magic of the Elves to guard against it, the lands themselves became rapidly tainted with Evil, slowly transforming into an empire more akin to the Dark Realm in the East, until eventually the two became almost indistinguishable with Shadow swallowing the light of Middle Earth as it crept across the green lands and turned them to black ash.

The Orcs, Trolls and already allied Men – primarily Easterlings and Haradhrim, both born of the East anyway - continued to advance outwards from their homes in the eastern lands, commanded by the Nazgul, taking all they could in wealth, power and blood. Equally, the Uruk-hai, creatures created from the earth, bastardised versions of Goblins crossed with tortured, mutilated Elves-turned-Orcs, poured forth from the place of their conception in the mystic tower of Orthanc in the stronghold of Isengard. Combined, this vast army was unstoppable.

However, the world truly fell to the forces of Evil when the Mountain of Doom at last exploded as the land's master gained more and more power. A resounding, earth-shattering boom shook the world to its very core. The rain of ash and dust that followed destroyed any crops that might have survived the attacks from the creatures of Shadow, poisoned the waters and turned the land black. The sky clouded, blocking out the light of the sun and moon and the sight of the stars in the heavens. What few kingdoms had survived the initial bombardments didn't survive long without food.

The majority of realms eventually disbanded, crumbled entirely or alternatively fell enslaved to the Shadow after the eruption of Mount Doom, their remaining people scattering.

Only the last of the Firstborn saw all this happening over the years. Immortality – or at least immunity from the passing of time – was not in these days of change a blessing but rather a curse. Those who could, fled to the Blessed Lands while they still had the chance but the Harbours could not sustain for long and it wasn't long before there was no escape left for those who lasted. Bound to the dying land, the Elves fast became solitary, nomadic creatures, tied to no land and set forever in their misery over their ruined homes. Most of them who had lived through the attacks on their lands either ended up enslaved in Mordor, faded away from their grief of simply disappeared from all sight.

The Dwarves fared little better – perhaps even worse. Rather than scattering and wandering alone as the other defeated forces of good, the stout-hearted Dwarves had at first and until the last remained united, coming together at their final stronghold in the caverns of Moria to defend their culture, to quite literally stand their ground. Even beneath the earth the evil of Mordor lurked, however. The dragon that for millennia had remained dormant woke, waging war on the Dwarven realm. Standing unsupported by the other, previously powerful races though, they were fighting a losing war but nevertheless they stood as one. And they paid the price for their loyalty, for within a decade of the War starting the Dwarves were an all but extinct culture with only very few remaining alive and captive within Mordor for the use and amusement of the Dark Lord.

Men, for the first couple of decades after the victory of Mordor, were as the Elves: divided and uncoordinated. But unlike the Elves they soon became reunited, once again retaking and beginning to populate their momentarily abandoned cities. They diligently drove out the hordes of Mordor, regaining their lost territories.

Victory was impossible against the all-powerful might of Sauron though and the armies of the East descended mercilessly on the lands of Men and yet, painstakingly slowly, the Second Born retook the Gondorian city of Minas Tirith and, with the Stewardship successfully reinstated, the race of Men rallied once more.

The armies of humanity were no match for the sheer strength of Mordor and yet they gradually regained some of their lands - even as the realms of the Elves were abandoned by the fair ones - retaking parts of Gondor, including the base of the White City and parts of the land of Rohan.

For the first time in millennia, the world of Men was marginally more powerful than that of the Elves. Not that it meant much, for they were still horribly inferior to the strength of Sauron's armies and that was all that really counted in the dark times they now lived in.

Not all Men were united to the cause though. Those whose kingdoms were beyond saving, those who had nowhere to go, became much like the Elves: nomadic and lonesome. Many were driven mad by the changed world they were now forced to live in and became almost as bad as the creatures that had taken away their freedom in the first place.

Wandering across the lands, these nomads became dangerous and wretched, scrabbling around for enough food and water just to stay alive. Some, over time and through sheer desperation, once more came together, taking ever more drastic measures to survive.

Cannibalism became common-place, groups of Men turning against one another. They became wild, untamed and as much as a threat as anything hailing from the bad lands of Mordor.

Despite the hopelessness that had blanketed all, the Free Peoples of Middle Earth fought hard to endure; hoping beyond hope that one day something would give and would deliver them from the fate they had been delivered.

**To Be Continued…**

**Chapter 2 - Up Now…**


	2. Snap Decisions

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**Chapter 2**

**Snap Decisions**

It was hard going walking through the thick, ashy sludge that made up the majority of the surface of the Old Forest that wound from the fallen Woodland Realm of Mirkwood all the way across the snow-capped Misty Mountains. His long memory could easily recall when the much-used road was clear, well-guarded by the Elves and easy to navigate due to the frequency of use; but nothing in these dark days was ever easy. Even the Elf's inherent light-footedness did little to ease the way and he struggled with every step. Not that it mattered because he was in no hurry and travelled with no other to see his battle for balance and he had no need for clear directions – a good job seeing as any signposts along the way had long since rotted out of existence - because Legolas knew every square inch of this particular road like the back of his hand.

He had walked this road hundreds of times, both before the victory of Mordor when he had walked from the splendour of his home to the other side of the impressive mountains and long after it became dangerous and difficult.

In fact, in the wake of the fall of the once strong and mighty kingdom of Mirkwood, of which he had once been crown prince sole heir to the throne, Legolas had done very little _but_ wander up and down the stretch of road from the ravaged forest to the very base of the mountains, never crossing over the peaks into the lands beyond, never straying too far.

Truthfully, after the fall of the Woodland Realm, her broken-hearted, exiled prince had had absolutely no idea what to do with himself. He had no chance of ever taking back his infested lands, not by himself anyway and not without any weapons of note, so he simply walked the road he knew so well, never venturing too far in either direction, neither towards his beloved but now wretched forest nor to possible redemption across the mountains. He had no aim, nothing to walk towards, and yet he could not - _would not -_ stop.

Compelled to ever continue onwards despite the challenges presented to him along the way – lack of food and water; the danger of roaming orcs, Spiders and Men; to name but a few – he just had nothing else to do with himself, nowhere else to go. To stop was to die; he honestly believed that. And although he had nothing to live for anymore, no friends or family left alive to share what remained of his own life, he forced himself to endure.

Today, the blistering heat that the thick, unnatural clouds of Mordor usually trapped in the air was sufficiently dampened by the coming of the first real winter in years and now, for the first time in the twenty years that Legolas had been tracing the same sludgy pathway, the ground beneath his thin-booted feet was partially frozen. Usually the cold only came as darkness descended whilst the days remained unbearably hot. Neither was particularly comfortable though and Legolas found that he really didn't care either way, despite the fact that for some reason he felt the heat and cold more these days.

He walked alone. The mere thought of travelling with another filled his heart with dread. The only time he ever came into contact with anyone at all, they were allied to the Enemy and he was able to do that which he took a little pleasure – if he was able to feel pleasure at all anymore - in doing: killing the foul creatures of Sauron who'd brought misery to the lands.

The road under his feet now was an odd, unpleasant mixture of ice and mud. His toes, covered by thin boots stolen from the pitiful corpse of some poor soul who had perished on the side of the road – one of the many the Elf had come across over the years – were frozen stiff, aching as he expertly stepped around the perilous potholes and sheets of ice forming on the road.

It was growing dark and he knew that soon he would have to stop, not because of the fall of night but because, after three days of non-stop walking, he was growing exhausted and although he actually quite liked the almost numb feeling his fatigue brought, he knew it was dangerous to indulge in. With so many orcs and bandits also on the road, it was not sensible to become exhausted to the point where he could no longer defend himself.

By now he knew all the safe places to rest along the road so, leaving the frozen pathway, he ducked through a well-known cave entrance and slipped inside. It was small, but small was best for there were fewer places for evil forces to hide; it was comforting to be so enclosed. Of course, it didn't stop the cold penetrating but at least when the rains fell from the threateningly heavy dark clouds, which now constantly obscured the sun and stars, he would be sheltered.

The prince shuffled right to the very back of the small cave, confident already that he wouldn't be sharing it with anyone or anything else that night. He replaced some of the overgrown vines over the entrance to disguise its existence just in case someone should pass by. That it was occupied should now have been indeterminate. Shrugging off the leather satchel filled with the few essentials that he carried with him always, Legolas sat down on the hard but dry ground. It wasn't comfortable but at least he was off his throbbing feet.

Knowing that it was too dangerous to start a fire to warm up his chilled body, he didn't bother removing his filthy clothing. Rarely anymore did he peel the tattered thick layers of clothing from his body, which was actually a relief to him as, trapped on the same stretch of road with no amenities, he had very few opportunities to wash himself and anyway he despised having to look at his thin, emaciated form anyway; it only reminded him – if a reminder was ever needed – that the world had become a desolate and grim place, and the mere sight of his skeletal body with its pale almost translucent skin sickened him to the core and at just the thought he shuddered in the darkness of the cave.

He pulled, with gloved, shaking hands, a thread-bare blanket from his satchel and carefully swung it around his thin shoulders, pulling it up over his head as well like a hood. Then he retrieved his canteen from his bag and took a measured sip from the nearly empty flask. Water was a valuable substance, more precious to him now than all the jewels beneath Arda and he knew to survive he must ration it, no matter how thirsty he got.

With the blanket wrapped tightly around himself and his backpack held close in case some stray bandit decided he wanted the prince's belongings enough to attack, Legolas finally allowed his shattered body to rest.

It wasn't long before the rains fell from the sky, accompanied by earth-rumbling thunder and flashes of odd-coloured lightening which reflected off the dark clouds and lit up the desolate world beneath in a way that perhaps might once have been described as beautiful. Legolas, however, had no time for beauty anymore, nothing in this new world was beautiful Sauron had made certain of that when he ravaged the lands and he was immensely glad he was inside away from the toxic downpour.

This far away from Dol Guldur, the third biggest base of Mordor's allies and the tower from which had poured the enemies of Mirkwood during the war to end all wars, the rain would have done little but mildly burned his skin, a discomfort rather than a terrible threat. In Mirkwood, however, this rain would be a burning, stinging acid deluge that on a regular basis battered the already bare ground and he wouldn't want to get caught out in that again. He already carried a couple of scars from last time the acidic rain had hit his bare skin when he'd been caught unawares in the past.

For a while, Legolas watched as the bright lightning intermittently lit up the sheet rain pouring from the thunderously black sky, which showed through the small gaps in the drenched foliage he'd used for concealment. The Elf was exhausted from his latest stint on the road but even in the cover of the cave he feared going to sleep; it was then that he was at his most vulnerable – to both outside threats and the ones that invaded his mind when he allowed it to drift from reality. He feared so many things in this world changed but he knew this was probably the safest he was going to be for a good long while, so he let his eyes fall partially closed and glazed over and allowed himself to drift off into the light reverie that generally substituted for sleep.

**OIOI**

Legolas awoke with a start from his unsettled reverie. He gauged that the rain had stopped as he could no longer hear the pounding of water outside the cave entrance. And, apart from the ever-present, far-distant rumbling from the direction of Mordor that whispered through the air, the surrounding area appeared quiet once more. His tiny cave had remained undisturbed during his repose and his bag was still tightly clutched in his cold hands, safe from bandits and thieves for another night.

And yet something still felt different with the world.

It was difficult to be completely certain because since the devastation wreaked by the war, the world had become so horribly confusing that it was all but impossible to tell the difference between what had become normal and abnormal. And yet, that odd nagging sensation at the back of his mind that let him know when something was wrong just would not go away.

He strained his hearing hoping it might provide some clue as to what was out of place but there was no anomalous sound but the odd falling raindrop hitting the mud outside his cave; no distant voices or calls of Orcs – or worse. And yet neither was it entirely silent. The sound of distant evil hung in the air, unsettling Legolas even though after so many years of bearing it it should have had no further effect on him.

Usually when he got this peculiar feeling that something was amiss, he simply ignored it, not wanting to get involved in anything that could turn out to be perilous for him. There was too much danger around fully prepared to hunt him down and take his fragile life as it was without him actively going out of his way to look for it. He just liked to walk. Walking was so blissfully simple and he always knew where he was on the Old Forest Road.

This time though, he found it difficult to ignore. Carefully, he removed his blanket and folded it up as small as possible before replacing it in his pack, from which he also pulled one of the long, white-handled knives contained within an ancient tattered leather sheath. Despite his reluctance to venture from the relative safety of his dry cave, Legolas felt oddly compelled to move, to search out the cause of the weird tingling sensation that had invaded his mind. He had to know.

Standing and ducking low so as not to bang his head on the low roof of the cave, Legolas crept forwards, knife in hand. After clearing some of the protective foliage away, Legolas peered out of the mouth of the cave to check that nothing was lurking right outside, ready to strike. Ascertaining that the coast was clear, he crept out into the darkness, silent but for the slight rustle of the bushes as he replaced them to cover up the entrance to the cave so it remained concealed should he ever have need to use it again.

The previously frozen path was now soaked with the acrid water that had poured from the sky filling in the potholes that pitted the road. Nothing else appeared, at first glance, to be different, although all along the road a thick mist had descended, shrouding his view beyond more than a few feet in any direction. He looked left and right, searching for some reason behind the tingling of dread in his mind.

With a small sigh of defeat crossed with relief that he'd found nothing out of the ordinary, he turned his mind to considering whether he could really justify going back to his dry cave for another couple of hours' sleep. Now that he was back on the well-known stretch of mud though, he felt the itching need to be walking again. Although he had just come from that very direction a few hours ago and would thus be retracing his steps, he turned left and, readjusting his backpack strap on his shoulder, he settled into walking once more.

Ironically, it didn't take him long to completely by coincidence come upon the thing that had pricked his senses alert earlier. The Orcs, vile abominations created by Sauron, were hardly subtle or quiet when they travelled. Legolas was instantly on alert when he heard them from afar through the fog. He hastily left the road and retrieved his second knife, the first's twin, from the sheath in his backpack.

Under normal circumstances, he would have left the area with all possible haste, letting the blood-thirsty Orcs retain control of the road rather than challenging them and engaging them in battle. But tonight he felt the old heat of anger burning in the pit of his stomach, the feeling surprising him as he hadn't felt it in decades. A long time ago, he had given up on all thoughts of revenge for the sacking of his beloved homeland and now he only fought out of absolute necessity rather than for pleasure. The unexpected heat urged him onwards despite the voice of common sense in his head and he returned to the road with determination, weapons at the ready, fully prepared and longing for a fight.

Confidently striding through the thick mist, Legolas ran towards the sounds of heavy footsteps and clanking armour.

His guess at Orcs proved correct. They marched in an erratic manner, in typically disordered ranks, stomping and sliding carelessly on the wet, slippery ground, growling and snarling in annoyance and abject misery as they went; heedless it seemed of the Elf making his approach on conversely light and steady feet.

As he neared their position, Legolas left the road once more, wanting some small element of surprise to his eventual attack. He crouched at the side of the path, cold, gloved hands clasping onto the white handles of his most treasured weapons. The Orcs, not anticipating any kind of opposition on the Mordor-controlled path, were clearly not looking out for any potential danger; after all, in this part of the world no one dared to stand up to the might of Mordor any longer. They hadn't even sent a scout ahead to check for danger.

It proved perfect for Legolas. Despite their numbers, they remained a woefully stupid race.

Well-trained in battle, having had plenty of practice over his eternal lifetime in the ever-beleaguered kingdom of Mirkwood, Legolas did not fear plunging into battle with his foe, even in his state weakened by hunger and neglect. He knew how to kill the creatures and now that the opportunity to engage in battle with that most hated race had presented itself, he found that the prospect of shedding the black, toxic blood of the wretched ones from Mordor excited him.

Adjusting his tight grip on his twin Elvish blades, Legolas readied himself to act. He let the first few ranks of Orcs pass him by, knowing the weaker, less well-armed ones tended to take up the rear and they would make for good sport and balance out the odds somewhat with their easy demise – it was always handy to ease into a fight and they would prove the perfect warm-up before the main event. Balanced on the balls of his feet, Legolas prepared to leap forwards, blood pounding through his veins with strength he had not felt for many years.

Just as he was about to make his move though, he squinted through the fog at the rows of creatures to find that the Orcs towards the front of the ranks had halted and turned back to face the slower amongst them.

"Get 'em up," one of the foul beings commanded in a loud harsh voice.

There was a small scuffle arising in the midst of the Orkish patrol but Legolas couldn't see with whom they were fighting – 'probably fighting amongst themselves,' he thought to himself in disgust. Maybe if he waited long enough they would all get involved in the fight and even the odds out even more for him.

"I said, get 'em up. We ain't carryin' them the whole way," the same Orc complained, shoving its way through its companions. The Orc kicked at something on the ground and Legolas heard an exclamation of pain, followed by a sharp cry of, "No!"

The prince's ears pricked up at this for that was a voice of innocence, not corruption; the voice of a child. Before he even realised it, the pleading voice had penetrated the hardened shell around his heart and he felt it constrict painfully with sympathy for the innocent. This was neither the time or the place for sympathy though and he resolved to remain distanced from this. The child was not his concern.

"Shut it!" the Orc growled in wake of the child's cry.

A tight voice sounded amidst the chaos, calling out desperately, "Leave him alone, I beg you." A human man, Legolas determined. Not his concern either. The Orcs were his only concern.

"You be quiet!" the Orc ground out, drawing a rusty sword in threat.

"He's just a boy. Please let him go," the human voice cried out in spite of the threat.

Laughter rippled cruelly through the Orkish ranks and Legolas felt his blood run cold with dread at the sound; it was one he was horribly familiar with as he had heard it echoing across his vast forest home as Mirkwood had been razed to the ground by the foul creatures. Hatred, pure and unadulterated, replaced sympathy in his heart and his cold fingers tightened around pearl-white handles in determination to shed black blood this night.

"Keep your mouth shut, scum," the lead Orc yelled, kicking at what to Legolas looked like a lump of immobile rags.

There was no further sound from the wretched human and Legolas watched in equal silence through the thick mist as a pair of harassed looking Orcs dragged the hunched-over figure to his feet and shoved him forward with no care for his balance. Fortunately the man caught himself before he could slip in the mud and, as he forced himself to take limping steps forwards, Legolas noticed the man reach out a pale hand and take the young boy's much smaller hand, urging him forward to escape the notice of the Orcs.

It was a sad sight, man and child, no doubt guiltless other than being of a kind hated by the forces of evil, surrounded by monsters, no doubt being led to their deaths, but it was one Legolas had witnessed all too many times over the last fifty years. He had come to learn that in such matters there was no escape and most anyone could hope for was that their deaths would be swift. Perhaps if he timed his ambush to perfection he could put the poor people out of their misery himself, for surely any ending was better than the one the Orcs no doubt had planned.

As the end ranks of Orcs started their disorganised, stomping marching again, faster now to catch up with their unburdened companions, Legolas at last took his opportunity. With so many different conflicting emotions running through his aching heart, he focused on just one, the most potent and easiest to give into: rage. He allowed it to flood his mind as, stealthily, even though stealth was not required anymore, he rushed onto the road behind the Orcs and without hesitation slashed at the backs of the closest two, killing them instantly.

He managed to take down another couple of the intensely stupid creatures before they could think to defend themselves or the others caught on and turned to face their surprise attacker. With loud howls of anger, the Orcs surged towards him with their rusted weapons, but strangely Legolas wasn't in the least bit intimidated by them or even remotely tired from his trials any longer. He simply gave himself over to this most primal anger. The adrenaline surged and the fallen prince engaged.

Man and child, caught in the midst of this fight between their evil captors and this mystery fool who dared challenge the creatures of Shadow, crouched low, hoping to be ignored by both sides of the fight. They wanted no part of this, whatever it was. Nevertheless, the Man knew an opportunity when he saw one and as the Orcs were distracted by the tall creature of wrath who assaulted them without fear or mercy, he snatched the child's hand and dragged the frozen boy away from the brawl.

"Dad?" the child cried out, tugging on his father's hand in terror.

"We have to go," the man encouraged frantically.

"But…"

"Now," he urged as an Orc fell dead near to them. The young boy screamed in horror and made no further protest as he was dragged from the site of the battle. He struggled to his feet again even as his father stumbled in his haste to escape. The child, hearing the shouts of the angry Orcs behind him, forced himself to his short, weak legs to run but as they cleared the scene of the scuffle, something dragged him back to the muddy ground.

At first, the child, terrified out of his wits, panicked, crying out for fear that he had been snagged by one of the set-upon black-blooded monsters who had been marching them relentlessly across the lands for the past week. Sense returned quickly though and he realised that the hold-up with their escape was in fact his own father, who had slipped in the mud and was now kneeling on the ground, coughing that awful, hacking cough that had been assailing him for many weeks now. His once strong father had suffered this kind of attack of illness before but now was not the time to fall.

"Go," the man desperately rasped to his son, roughly shoving the small body away from him. When the light grey eyes of the boy flicked from the misty road to his father, then to the still on-going battle and finally back again, showing his indecision, the man cried as loud as he dared, "I told you to leave. Now go!"

Shaking his head so that the thin fabric of his hood slid back to reveal dark, lank curls on a pale forehead, the boy insisted, "No," and went to grab his father's arm to help him up.

"Don't," the man demanded even as he grasped his tight chest. "Just go. Run."

"I'm not leaving." An Orc crashed to the ground close by, making the boy scream in fright but the monster was already dead and the human child looked towards the battle only long enough to ensure that the Orcs were not liable to abandon their fight with the strange, blonde-haired man who sought a fight with them.

Averting his eyes – the sounds of death echoing along the creepy road were bad enough, he didn't want to watch the demise of the creatures or the man attacking them – the boy once again tugged on his downed father's arm. He wanted to get away from all this horror but he knew he couldn't leave his father – he wouldn't leave him, not after everything they had been through in the past weeks.

"Daddy, get up," the young boy cried, pulling his father's arm.

Upon the urging, this time the weakened man scrambled to his feet. If his son would not leave him and save himself he still had a responsibility to get him to safety.

"Come on," he gasped, half-crawling away from the struggle. He hoped to get far enough away so that they would be concealed by the still-present mist. If they hid on the side of the road then perhaps they could remain undetected whilst the danger passed. This plan, however, was dependant on the crazy man who had started a fight with the Orcs actually winning and they couldn't be certain that would happen. So they struggled to gain some distance.

Legolas knew nothing but blind rage as he flung himself whole-heartedly into this self-inflicted battle. The moves he had practiced every day of his life for almost two thousand years came surprisingly easily despite them no longer having quite the same force behind them due to his lack of strength. The most he had fought prior to this was out of necessity when attacked; he had not been on the offensive for a long time. And it felt good.

As black blood spurted and flowed copiously from the hideous creatures of Mordor, Legolas felt his own, untainted blood pounding with energy. He continued to attack without mercy, whirling and slashing at the Enemy with glinting silver blades, all rage and hatred. The stunned Orcs barely had time to rally before they were killed where they stood. They fought, of course, but they had not had to fight one of the Elven-kind for many decades and they were ill-prepared for such a well thought out battle. Seldom in this part of the world, now almost completely devoid of anything other than evil, were the Orcs attacked and never by the nearly extinct race of Elves.

The Orcs, despite Legolas' initial uncertainty about taking them on, never really stood a chance. Caution was thrown to the wind by both sides. After all, Legolas no longer cared whether he lived or died. It wasn't as if there was anything to live for anymore. Death would be a blessed relief.

Thick black Orc blood coated Legolas' hands as it dripped and slid down the handles of the twin Elven blades he wielded and sprayed in his face but he didn't care at all about the gore. He attacked with venom and efficiency. 'Attacking out of anger,' he could still hear his old weapons' instructor telling him on Mirkwood's sunlit training fields, 'can only lead to failure. Attack with your mind, not your heart.' Sound advice to be sure but impossible to heed as sheer fury pulsed through his mind and heart equally.

The last Orc fell as easily as the others but Legolas did not immediately stop in his assault. Yelling in rage unchecked, he stabbed and slashed at the corpses, wanting to defile them in the same way they had defiled his kin. Never would he fully descend to their level of depravity but he needed to vent this wrath lest it consume him in its potency.

Slamming his knife into the black heart of one of the disgusting servants of the Dark Lord Sauron, Legolas finally gave in to the exhaustion that had been his constant companion for the past five decades and pulled the blade free with some effort before letting it rest against the ground whilst he caught his breath.

His heart remained racing, blood pounding loudly in his ears, for a long time and it felt good to hear something other than the ominous rolling thunder from Mordor. Looking down in disgust at the revolting mass of corpses, Legolas wiped his knives clean on a rag snagged from one unlucky creature who had lost his head.

As the adrenaline wore off, the pounding that had filled his mind started to also ease off and his breathing evened out, Legolas heard a sound, one he was even less familiar with than the noise of battle. Frowning, he tried to place the sound. It sounded like…crying, he realised.

Exhausted from the fight, Legolas felt that he should retreat away from any new situation that would further delay him on his walk. And yet, for reasons beyond his understanding, he felt compelled to find out what was happening to make this night so terribly different from all the other nights he had endured for the past twenty years.

Slowly, he turned towards the noise, raising one of the knives he still held in his right hand just as a precaution. There were very few things in this changed world that he trusted anymore.

Sat only ten feet or so down the muddy road, was a small boy, hunched over the large lump that Legolas had seen the Orcs tormenting before he launched his surprise assault. The wretched crying, it seemed, was coming from the obviously distressed child and he seemed to be desperately trying to shake the wheezing, coughing lump into action, with very little success.

"Dad, get up," the boy cried out in distress, shaking the man's arm again. "Daddy, please. We have to go."

The man, the boy's father, Legolas realised, made no other response but to cough weakly again. Despite his uncertainty, Legolas took a step forward, being careful to avoid treading on the fallen Orcs or slipping on slick blood. He found that his curiosity was piqued by father and son – Orcs holding humans captive was no great shock for they had enslaved many since the end of the reign of the Free Peoples but this was the first time Legolas had actually encountered the enslaved personally. He had seen the Elves, people, friends, from his own kingdom, abused and murdered by the Orcs but this child, pleading and begging with his fallen father, tugged on his heartstrings in a way nothing had since he had fled his home. Sympathy – it was an emotion he had not experienced in so long that it no longer seemed as familiar nor came as easily as it once had.

For a moment, Legolas watched the child and tried to figure out what he should do next. Everything he had learned during his long exile implored him to flee, to run from this new danger. It was someone else's problem. Yes, he should leave before he was dragged even further into this mess. After all, he had done enough for these people by releasing them from the cruel clutches of their captors. Whatever moral duty he was bound to had more than been fulfilled. His conscience could rest easily now.

His mind made up, Legolas abruptly turned away from the pitiable sight of father and child lost. He made no effort to clear up the blood-soaked scene of the battle. The filthy creatures would soon be stripped bare by the crows, hungry enough to feast even on tainted Orc flesh.

"Help us," a small, wobbly voice called as Legolas walked away and despite his conviction, the Elf's steps faltered. He turned his head to look at the child. Expressive grey eyes shimmered with tears, glancing nervously towards his father then back to Legolas. "Please…please, help us."

Legolas looked the boy up and down. He was small. It was impossible to guess at an age; no one looked as they should when they were half-starved. Fear and horror were set upon his youthful face, no surprise given he had just witnessed a massacre. But there was pleading and desperation there also.

No, he had vowed long ago to look after only himself. He wouldn't get involved with another now.

"My dad is sick. Please help."

Damn that sweet voice; it reminded him so much of the innocence that had once been abound in the world and that had been so utterly destroyed upon the rising of Sauron.

"Please. Please help," the child cried, clutching to his fallen father with one hand and with the other reaching out beseechingly toward Legolas.

His mind screamed at him to leave. He couldn't afford to get attached to anything or anyone. And yet his heart – his treacherous heart that had always been more tied to his conscience than common sense and the decision he always felt compelled to listen to – told him to stay, to offer help to the desperate child and stricken man.

"Help us," the young child pleaded, his voice choked with emotion.

And Legolas, despite everything, turned back. Taking both his deadly knives in a single hand, the Elf strode purposefully towards the man and child. Upon his approach, the boy, even though he had been the one to ask the Elf to return, cowered close to his father, spreading himself protectively over the barely conscious man.

**To Be Continued…**


	3. The Father And The Son

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 3**

**The Father And The Son**

"On your feet," Legolas commanded once he had reached the child. The boy stared blankly up at him and an already frustrated Elf demanded, "On your feet." When the child still didn't respond, Legolas frowned down at him, trying to figure out what the problem was. Then he realised he was speaking in his native Sindarin tongue and the boy had only been talking in Westron, the common tongue of Men on Middle Earth. The problem was that he didn't understand what Legolas was saying.

With patience Legolas no longer realised he even possessed, he repeated in perfect, if heavily accented, Westron, "Get up. Let me see your father."

Slowly, the boy got shakily to his feet, his eyes never leaving the tall, blonde being as he knelt down in the mud. Pulling the man over onto his back, Legolas was actually relieved to find that although his breathing was raspy he had not yet passed. Realising that there was no way the human could walk, Legolas swung his backpack off his shoulders and replaced his knives in the sheathes inside.

"Hold this," he said, shoving the bag at the boy, who wrapped his arms around it in surprise.

Legolas lifted the man up then hauled him over his shoulder, surprised by how weighty he was. People now tended to be weak and slender from lack of food and yet this particular human seemed well-fed, plump even. Legolas wondered distastefully if perhaps he was one of the Men from the South; one of the Southrons maybe, or one of the Haradhrim or Easterlings, dangerous but treacherous folk who had given themselves over to the ways of the Dark Lord with little hesitation and had consequently reaped the rewards of betrayal.

Bitter hatred surged in his heart at that thought that he was aiding an ally of the Shadow but he did not stop helping the man and his child. He couldn't turn away from his promise now no matter how tainted by Darkness they may have been.

"Follow me," he told the nervous child, walking off before he had a chance to say anything in protest or question.

Legolas walked onwards in silence, mostly because he couldn't think of anything to say. Silence for him was far more comfortable and natural anyway.

Clearly the boy did not think the same way though, as when he caught up with the Elf, jogging to keep up with his rescuer's pace, he asked, "Where are we going?"

Legolas did not answer the inquisitive child even though he knew perfectly well where he was heading. They could not go to the cave he had just left; it was too close to the site of the slaughtered Orcs. So Legolas settled instead on another, equally secluded, spot he had used for respite during his twenty years wandering the Old Forest Road. It was a long walk to reach their destination but he could handle that, it was nothing new; he only hoped the boy was not adverse to travelling long distance.

Dawn came before they reached the place Legolas had chosen. The small copse of dead trees did not provide the same kind of shelter as the cave but Legolas knew that, being off the beaten track so to speak, it was isolated enough to be considered safe.

Legolas came to a halt in the centre of the stand of bare, scorched trees and lowered his burden to the ground with a grunt of effort. The boy followed close behind, Legolas' bag still clutched tightly to his chest. He looked down in obvious concern at his father then back up at the Elf, pleading with his expressive grey eyes for him to help.

Resisting the urge to sigh in annoyance, Legolas knelt down in the cold mud and pulled back the man's hood to reveal his face. He was young-looking, Legolas guessed in his early forties at the most, and he actually looked reasonably healthy, which was rare. His eyes were closed tightly, his brow creased in pain even through his unconsciousness. Stubble covered his chin but he did not wear a thick beard as so many Men Legolas saw did. He seemed to take care of himself despite the lack of tools with which to do so. Thus, the only thing convincing Legolas that this man was not a servant of the Enemy was the clothing he wore. They were not of the rich finery bestowed upon those who swore allegiance to the Dark Lord but more akin to the clothes worn by wanderers, like Legolas himself.

It did not take a trained healer to recognise the symptoms of illness the man displayed. Legolas had seen enough of it in the poor vagrants he had come across on the road over the years. More often than not it was a simple chill that killed off the Men in the end. It usually started with a cough but soon the infection would set in and that, without the luxury of the medicines used before the War, there was little chance of recovery.

This man seemed to be in the latter stages of the illness. The rasping sound coming from his chest every time he drew breath proved that.

Legolas could have cursed. He had gone to all that trouble for nothing. With the fragile boy watching though, he could not show the hopelessness of their situation, so he held out his hand for his bag and from it retrieved his canteen of water. It was very nearly empty but he nevertheless placed it to the man's lips and dribbled water into his mouth. Fortunately, the man did not choke and swallowed the precious liquid easily. Legolas then handed the flask to the child waiting in anticipation for his father's awakening at his side.

"Not all of it," the Elf snapped as the boy greedily guzzled down the water.

"Sorry." The admonished child replaced the lid carefully on the canteen and laid it on the ground close to Legolas. "Is he going to be all right?"

"I don't know yet."

Once, Legolas would have lied, would have sought to comfort the boy but he found that the words would not come to him. Truth be known, he had never been all that good at consoling children, even before the changing of the world. He never knew quite what to say. And now was no different, made no easier by the circumstances.

All the once eloquent Prince of Mirkwood could come up with was, "He needs to rest."

The boy nodded and slowly sat down on the ground next to his father, crossing his legs and taking the older man's large hand in his own small one.

For a long while nothing was said. Legolas liked the quiet, appreciated it, but clearly the boy did not as he soon got fidgety and his eyes went to the person who had rescued he and his sick father.

"Are you a Ranger?" he asked curiously.

Legolas looked up from what he was doing, surprised that the silence had finally been broken. "Excuse me?"

"Are you one of the Rangers?" the boy repeated patiently.

"What Rangers?"

"You know, _the _Rangers."

"Uh…No, I am not."

The boy's small head bobbed up and down and small shoulders shrugged beneath his thick jacket. "The Rangers are very brave, just like you," he innocently pointed out.

Legolas scoffed dismissively. "I am not brave."

"You fought the monsters."

"Yes," the Elf agreed blandly; fighting not to add that he had no earthly reason to do so, that he should have left father and son to their fates regardless of his pesky conscience.

"The Rangers fought the monsters too and they are all very brave. Who taught you to fight?" Legolas ignored this question completely; the flash of his pleasant days of weapons training on the sunlit green in Mirkwood's vast training grounds hurting to dwell on. Realising that the strange creature wasn't going to answer his question, the child continued with another. "Is this your home?"

Legolas frowned at the suggestion. "No."

Changing topic so suddenly that it caught the Elf off guard, the boy said, "I'm hungry. Do you have any food?"

Legolas could have laughed in wonder – and no small amount of incredulity – at the innocent brashness of this odd child. "No, I don't have anything to eat," he answered slowly, crouching on the muddy ground.

"Oh."

Surely this strange boy could not seriously be disappointed or surprised by his lack of resources. It had been days since Legolas had had any food and to go that length of time with nothing at all was not out of the ordinary. Food – at least for the civilised person – was not readily available anymore. Few animals remained to hunt and for the most part the lands had been stripped bare. Yet, as he had observed before, the child looked far from starving. Legolas turned his eyes down to the man, still unconscious at his side, and wondered in growing concern if maybe he was one of the nomadic wanderers, the wild and dangerous men who, in their desperation, had resorted to cannibalism and subsequently descended into madness. True, this man and boy did not look crazed but Legolas trusted no one anymore.

Interrupting the boy's on-going stream of questions, Legolas asked him, "What is your name?"

"I'm Aragorn and my father's name is Arathorn," the boy answered quickly, a beaming smile coming to his lips at finally being spoken to properly.

"Aragorn," Legolas tested the name on his tongue. "Do you carry any supplies, Aragorn?" Usually people travelled with at least the basics, whatever they could scavenge or steal on their travels. To travel with nothing was risky indeed.

"The monsters took them," the boy answered quietly, looking down again with sad eyes at his father.

"Alright," Legolas sighed, getting to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Aragorn asked as the saviour and slayer of the monsters picked up his pack from the ground.

"To find your possessions. Perhaps I can salvage something useful."

"You're going back to where the monsters are?" Aragorn swallowed thickly in fear at the mere thought.

"They are all dead. There is nothing more to fear from them," the Elf replied disinterestedly, wondering how on earth in this hard world the child could be so afraid of everything. Fear, although on occasion useful, was more of a hindrance and to survive one must conquer it or perish.

"Sh…should I come with you then?" he asked nervously.

"You stay here with your father."

"What about the monsters? What if they come?"

"Just stay put and you will be fine."

"You won't leave us, will you?" Aragorn asked with imploring eyes.

The question surprised Legolas somewhat as that thought had not even crossed his mind despite it being exactly the sensible thing to do, the kind of thing he was now liable to do. Yet he had not considered leaving the boy and Arathorn.

"I'll be back," he assured genuinely after a moment.

Not waiting for any further questions or protests, Legolas stalked away, returning once more to the well-known road. He wasn't worried about an Orc attack this time; it was unlikely that there would be two patrols on the same stretch of road so close together so he didn't bother drawing his weapons this time.

The walk back to the site of the fight was swifter when not burdened with a heavy human over his shoulder and he made good time. The bodies remained predictably unchanged although their thick black blood had seeped into the ground slickening it so he took care not to slip. The smell was foul but it was one he knew all too well from the attacks on his home and from all those he had slain since so it didn't really bother him too much.

Legolas took no notice of the repulsive sight and stench and with no hint of squeamishness searched through the corpses for Arathorn's belongings. He took a couple of weapons from the Orcs, anything that could be in some way useful to him. Scavenging was a way of life for him and he felt no guilt at taking belongings from another, especially not the Orcs.

The bag he was looking for was crushed beneath an Orc body so he shoved the filthy mass aside and dragged the light bag out of the mud. Crouching down, Legolas rifled through the bag, disappointed to find that it only contained a hunting knife, a couple of packets of dried meat and two sets of spare clothes, one for an adult and another fitted for a child. Perhaps the Orcs had already been through it and taken anything of value.

Still, it was better than nothing so Legolas did the bag back up and made his way back to Aragorn and Arathorn. The man remained in the same position as before but now Aragorn was laid down, his head pillowed on his father's chest. He seemed peacefully asleep so Legolas laid the salvaged bag down quietly and stepped quietly around them so as not to disturb the child.

"Poor thing is tired out," a man's croaky voice shattered the silence, actually making Legolas physically jump in surprise. The Elf was instantly on alert, eyes darting around the clearing for an intruder but common sense quickly won through and he looked down to the only possible source of the voice and saw bleary dark grey eyes looking up at him. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," the human smiled softly before having to pause to cough harshly.

"I didn't realise you were awake," Legolas told him, trying to calm his erratically pounding heart.

"Where are we?" the man merely asked weakly, trying to look around without moving his head and beginning another bout of coughing.

"Somewhere safe."

The man nodded his head carefully, his hand running slowly over the dark curls of his son's head, which rested against his chest peacefully. "Thank you for taking care of him," he whispered lovingly of his child.

"He wouldn't let me leave you to the Orcs."

"Touching sentiment," the man quipped with a lop-sided smile.

"How are you feeling now?" It felt so strange for Legolas to be having an actual conversation with another living being and even stranger to be asking after said being's welfare. All the politeness he had been taught during his days in his home had long since been pushed aside for lack of need but he dragged them out now, even though it did sound awkward even to his ears.

The man merely turned his head away, not answering and Legolas knew that he knew the truth of his condition. There was no recovery from this illness that assailed him. This quiet moment, this reprieve would be short-lived. But for the moment it was time to merely relish the time he had left with his son.

**OIOI**

Aragorn startled awake to the sound of harsh, strained coughing and he opened his eyes blearily. He was no longer laid resting on his father but rather on the cold, muddy ground. Quickly sitting up, Aragorn looked around and found his father being propped up by their rescuer – he must remember to ask the other man's name later, he thought – and being fed water from the canteen that had come from their own pack that their saviour had obviously retrieved.

"Dad?" the boy asked in a worried whisper and Arathorn wearily turned his head to look at him.

Legolas gently eased the man back down so his head was again pillowed on the Elf's own folded up jacket. The man reached his trembling hand out from underneath Legolas' threadbare blanket and beckoned to his son in a gasp, "Come."

Nervously, Aragorn got up and went as asked to his father's side, kneeling beside him on the ground. The last time he'd been awake his father hadn't looked so bad. Never before had the wise, kind man looked so pitiably small in Aragorn's eyes. His father was not supposed to look small, so powerless; he was meant to be strong and confident, unflinching in the face of danger and adversity.

Arathorn forced a shaky smile onto his face and laid the palm of his hand gently against his son's small, pale cheek. "It's alright," the man whispered in what he hoped was a reassuring voice. "Go and get yourself something to eat. There is some food left in my bag." When Aragorn hesitated to do as asked, his father insisted, "Go on and do as you're told. I need to speak with Legolas in private for a moment."

"Alright," the boy agreed, obediently – and rather reluctantly - moving over to where the bags were, conveniently too far away from his father to hear anything that was being said between the two grown-ups.

With the boy out of earshot, Legolas looked back down at the man, who had again closed his eyes wearily and spoke in a soft voice. "I know I have…no right to…ask anything of you." A small smile tugged at the corners of the man's pale lips. "I barely know you. But my…my son needs…He cannot be left alone. His mother is…gone now. He has no other."

"Arathorn, I don't…" Legolas went to object to what he knew the man was getting at.

"Please," the human gasped desperately, resulting in another coughing fit, which this time was accompanied by a spattering of blood. Swallowing the metallic taste so he was able to speak, Arathorn continued with determination if not strength, "Please, you have to…" He closed his eyes again and took another couple of deep but increasingly laboured breaths in order to recover himself. When he returned his glassy grey gaze to Legolas he looked more resolved and said, "There is something you have to know…about Aragorn."

At this Legolas listened more closely, leaning closer to the man, sensing the seriousness of what was coming. How odd it felt that less than a day ago he really couldn't have cared less if these two odd strangers lived or died, and yet now he felt connected to them in a bond of friendship that he had almost forgotten was possible and all this despite the fact that he and Arathorn had only shared one conversation. He was interested in what the man had to say about his son now and hoped he lasted long enough to speak it.

From his place distanced from his father, pretending to eat some of the dried meat from their backpack – for once he just didn't feel hungry – Aragorn could not hear, no matter how hard he tried, what was being said in carefully hushed voices by his father and the man whose name he had now discovered was Legolas, but both looked extremely serious as they talked and a couple of times Legolas' shocking blue eyes flicked over to him in surprise and he felt like squirming under the concerned intensity of the stare. He got the distinct impression that this intense conversation was about him and that troubled him greatly.

As the adults' conversation drew to a close Legolas sat up straighter once more and they no longer bothered to keep their voices to the level of a whisper, indicating that all the important things had already been discussed.

"I'll do all I can. You have my word," Legolas promised flatly, still a little stunned by what he had just been told. Were it not for the absolute truth and certainty in Arathorn's voice he would have dismissed the man as delusional in what were now unquestionably his final moments.

"Thank you," Arathorn breathed in relief, relaxing as if a massive worry had been lifted from his mind and body, then he looked towards his son with tears pooling in his eyes. He stubbornly blinked them back though and once more motioned the boy over to him. To Legolas he asked, "Could you give us a moment?"

"Of course," Legolas readily agreed, getting up as Aragorn sat down by his father's side. He wanted to lay a supportive hand on the boy's shoulder after what his father had just told him about his legacy and what lay ahead of him but it felt awkward as he barely knew these people despite having been confided in. So instead he stood at a respectful distance, aware that neither human realised that his superior Elven hearing meant he could still catch every word being said.

"Daddy?" Aragorn asked fearfully.

"It's going…to be…alright, I promise," Arathorn told him, although even his false confidence was gone now as his energy drained.

"I'm scared," the boy whispered, leaning over and hugging his father.

"Don't be…afraid," the man replied as firmly as he could manage, rubbing Aragorn's back gently with a shaking hand. "You…have to…go with…Legolas. Do as he says. Learn…from…him."

"Daddy," Aragorn whimpered pleadingly.

"I…love…you…Aragorn. Never forget…that."

"I won't."

"Promise…me."

"I promise," Aragorn vowed, his small voice choked.

Arathorn smiled between gasps and whispered, "You're a good boy."

Returning the smile shakily amidst his tears, Aragorn slipped his small hand into his father's colder, much larger hand, squeezing tightly, disappointed when his fading father did not – or could not - return the gesture. He laid his head down on his father's heaving chest, just holding him close whilst life still remained, knowing that the end was coming and not being able to do anything at all to prevent it.

He wanted to demand that Legolas, the mystery man who had recklessly plunged into the fray to rescue them - unwilling as it might have initially been - do something to prevent this from happening, to bring his beloved father and protector back from the brink. But Aragorn could not bring himself to move or even speak. He wanted to be close to the only thing he had left of a family until it was no more.

Aragorn stayed silent and still until the thin chest ceased all movement beneath him. Only then did the grief that had choked his tight, constricted throat pour forth and the tears that had been blurring his eyes fall and he let himself really cry. For this young boy's life had just been brutally displaced as his father, Arathorn, passed from the world.

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who is reading and to those who left a review. Hope you enjoyed the chapter and feel free to leave a review, I love reading them.**

**To Be Continued…**


	4. The Guardian

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOI**

**A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed and anyone reading this. I appreciate them all. Enjoy the next chapter.**

**OIOI**

**Chapter 4**

**The Guardian**

A red, quiet dawn broke over the dead copse of stripped-bare trees but the light was cold. The world around looked drenched in blood as the light filtered oddly through the thick clouds in the sky.

Legolas had spent a cold, uncomfortable night sat on the ground, keeping a respectful distance from Aragorn and his fallen father. The boy had cried long into the night but a couple of hours ago he had at last fallen silent, draped still over the cold lifeless body.

Despite the emotional distance Legolas tried to put between himself and the boy, he still recognised his pain and it physically hurt to think on it. It brought back too many memories of his own family's brutal demise. He felt pity for the child who in one day had lost everything he knew, everything he held dear. It burned in the pit of his stomach and stirred up that nagging pain of grief that had gnawed at his heart every day since the palace of Mirkwood had been taken by the Enemy and his people butchered. He felt desperate sorrow for young Aragorn for having to endure the same grief. The part of him that ached with sympathy wanted to go over and comfort the young boy, but what could he possibly say in condolence, his pragmatic muse questioned? Nothing could replace a lost parent and Legolas thought it would most likely be perceived as an insult even to try. So he sat in silence and watched the child grieve for what was lost.

In truth, as he watched, Legolas was almost in envy of Aragorn. He himself had never been granted the opportunity to say goodbye to his beloved father before the end. The King of Mirkwood, Thranduil, had been slaughtered in the midst of battle and Legolas had been unable to do anything but watch from afar through a haze of blood and smoke as royal blood flowed. And, before the king's ravaged body had hit the fine marble floor, Mirkwood's prince had fled.

Back in the grim present, Legolas shook his head to clear the memories. He had made a promise to Arathorn to care for the boy and as time passed and reality became stark once more in the light of day, Legolas felt the weight of that responsibility heavy on his shoulders. By now he could no longer recall why he had agreed to such a bargain in the first place. He hadn't meant to agree to anything at all and yet he had been unable to deny the dying man his final wish. How he was meant to do what had been asked of him he wasn't really sure. In the last day he had learned almost too much to process. More was at stake than merely the boy's survival. It would take some time for Legolas to get everything straight in his mind.

**OIOI**

Several hours later the Elf finally got to his feet, stretching out long, aching limbs. He never lingered in one spot for so long, knowing all too well the dangers, even in a place he deemed reasonably safe.

Walking over to Aragorn and his father, Legolas crouched down and said, "We cannot stay here any longer." Even to him his voice sounded loud and harsh and the boy startled at the sound. When he didn't move, however, Legolas explained, "We are too exposed here. We have to move on." He saw Aragorn draw in a deep, shuddering breath and he reached out his hand to lay it on the boy's back but changed his mind at the last moment and withdrew his hand. "We have to leave now. Aragorn?"

"I'm not leaving," the boy replied in a hoarse whisper.

"Well, you cannot stay here forever."

"Leave me alone."

"I can't do that." Legolas finally reached out his hand, although this time to pull Aragorn away from the body rather than offer comfort.

"Don't touch me," the boy screeched, ripping his arm out of Legolas' grip. Crying loudly, he hugged his father even tighter, burying his face in the man's shirt.

Legolas sighed heavily. He had absolutely no idea how to deal with a child. Not even before the end of freedom did he have any clue what to do around the Elflings of Mirkwood so he had almost no chance of getting it right now.

Not that the prince could especially blame Aragorn for his reaction. Had he been given the opportunity, he would have curled himself up into a tight ball and cried for all these long decades over the demise of his own beloved father. Surely he could bear to wait another couple of hours before dragging Aragorn away; maybe he would have become reconciled with the fact they had to leave by then.

"Alright," Legolas whispered, although it was so soft that he doubted the human would hear. He got to his feet and returned to his spot on the edge of the copse where he wouldn't be too noticeable to Aragorn but from where he could also keep a close eye on him. Perhaps he was finally going soft, Legolas mused, indulging the boy too much. There would be plenty of time to toughen him up later though. Legolas could do little else, could give little else, but this time to say goodbye to the man he loved, his beloved father.

Despite his compromise to only linger for another couple of hours, it actually turned out to be much longer. Morning turned into noon before anything at all changed in the small wood. Legolas found himself watching Aragorn intently as he mourned, waiting for something to give.

And eventually it did. Very slowly, the boy dragged himself up from his position sprawled over his father's lifeless body. At the shifting, Legolas sat up straighter but did not get up himself. Perhaps the boy would run for him and there would be no cause for the concern about his future anymore; the whole thing would be off his shoulders for good. It was a terrible thing to wish for and yet he found comfort in it.

Moving as if stuck in slow motion, Aragorn turned away from the pale body and, as though caught in a daze, made his way over to where Legolas sat cross-legged. The boy made no effort to speak and never met Legolas' curious eyes. The Elf half expected him to wander away for a moment of true privacy or lay down on the ground so he could cry himself to sleep – after all he had been through, the child must have been exhausted – but instead Aragorn completely shocked the Mirkwood exile by climbing onto his lap and curling up against him.

It had been a long time since Legolas had been hugged by anyone and it felt very strange and more than a little uncomfortable. The boy shivered violently against him, partially from the cold but also because of the cries that were again wracking his small body.

For a painfully long moment Legolas didn't know how to react. He sat frozen stiff, hands held up to avoid touching Aragorn's shaking body, with the child curled up in his lap, face buried in his shirt. Really the Elf had no earthly idea of how to comfort anyone anymore, let alone a distraught, grieving child.

Perhaps though there was so innate paternal instinct in him that automatically kicked in at the sound of a distressed child and he tentatively gave into the instinct and wrapped his arms awkwardly around Aragorn, enveloping him in a hug. He thought that the boy might pull away from the increased contact but instead the child buried closer to him and pulled Legolas' arm tighter around his body.

Held tightly in Legolas' strong embrace, it wasn't long before the exhausted Aragorn fell asleep and Legolas, despite the ever-present nagging feeling in the back of his mind to keep moving, to never stop, just didn't have the heart to disturb him.

**OIOI**

Time passed slowly for Legolas. He sat in silence with Arathorn's son curled up against him, oblivious to the Elf who protected him or the bleak world around him. Legolas thought that it might have been nice, to be oblivious. He had not been so for many years.

He would have liked to let the bereft child rest for longer but the danger, which before was a mere shadow in the distance, now seemed disconcertingly close. He wasn't certain what the threat was exactly but he had been wandering this road long enough to have learnt to trust his instincts.

There was no way to wake the child gently that Legolas could think of, so he merely shook the boy awake. Aragorn opened his eyes suddenly, blinking blearily up at his guardian.

"We have to go now," the prince said bluntly, lifting the boy up so he was now stood on his own two feet, startled by the sudden change in position. Ignoring his skittish new charge for the time being, Legolas walked across the clearing and picked up both bags, going to sling them over his shoulder. He was anxious to get moving again, to get back on his favoured road. Never before had he stayed in place so long since the Shadow had descended on the world and it made him uneasy.

"But…" Aragorn's small voice went to protest.

"What?"

The boy's eyes swept sadly over to where his father still laid and then said, "We can't leave him here."

"Well, we can't take him with us," Legolas said without thinking. Tears filled Aragorn's eyes and he turned his head away, biting his quivering lip. "I am sorry."

"Can…can we bury…?"

"We don't have time for this."

"Why?"

"Because…" He couldn't actually think of any sensible reason that he could tell the upset child. Just because he wanted to get on the road again, to continue walking towards nothing, didn't justify prematurely dragging the boy away from his father – in much the same way as he had been separated from his own adar.

It did feel somehow wrong to him to just leave the man out in the open like this, exposed. Within days, something – or more disturbingly, some_one_ – would have consumed the body. That was not a fate Legolas would wish on anyone and, in fact, it was amongst his greatest fears: to fall victim to that kind of depravity after his demise. Mercifully, it didn't seem that Aragorn realised this to even be a possibility. From what Arathorn had told him before his death, the child had lived a remarkably sheltered life and Legolas wasn't sure he was quite ready on this day to introduce Aragorn to all the gruesome realities of the world he would now inevitably be exposed to.

Sighing heavily in defeat, Legolas conceded, "Alright, I suppose we could…figure out something before we leave."

"Really?"

"Yes. It is the least we can do. Can you help in this task?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Go and collect some rocks or stones, anything we can use to cover the bod…your father," Legolas ordered, catching himself before he accidentally upset the boy all over again with his cold, unfeeling words.

Although he didn't know why exactly he was doing this, not seeing the relevance of stone in his father's burial, Aragorn followed the instructions given by his saviour. Meanwhile, Legolas set about preparing the man. With Aragorn out of sight for the moment, the Elf took the opportunity to pat Arathorn's clothing down, searching for anything on the man that might prove useful. He found a small but sharp knife tucked under his belt and he stuffed it into his bag. He considered stripping the man of his clothes, hoping that in some point in the future they might prove useful but with Aragorn with him he thought it might be a step too far so he begrudgingly left the man's clothing – and dignity – intact. Despite this, he wasn't above taking the man's jacket, socks and shoes, as well as folding up his own blanket that had been draped over the man in his final hours.

Whilst Aragorn was collecting the rocks, Legolas started digging the grave. Using an old and slightly crumbling branch from one of the long-dead trees would take a long time but with no other alternative to hand he had no choice. He could not incinerate the body; the large fire it would cause would undoubtedly attract unwanted attention to them. Burial was the only option as he was certain that Aragorn could not be persuaded to simply leave. This was, Legolas considered, a reasonable compromise.

By the time the boy, being purposefully slow apparently, returned with his final load of rocks and sticks, the grave, shallow though it was, was dug.

"Is that enough?" Aragorn asked of Legolas bleakly.

"I should imagine so," the Elf replied, inspecting the large pile of debris.

Legolas waited for a long moment, watching the boy as if expecting him to insist upon helping. When no such insistence came and Legolas realised that he would have to complete the macabre task himself, he went over to the stiff body and gripped the heavy man underneath the arms and rather unceremoniously dragged him to rest in the shallow hole he'd dug. With no one to help him, Legolas found it a little difficult moving the dead weight of the body and in his mind he grew annoyed at Aragorn's inactivity. Of course, he could not realistically ask the boy to bury his own father.

"Alright," Legolas mumbled grumpily, breathing heavily in exertion, once the body was in its place. He then proceeded to cover the body with the soil he'd just removed then piled the stones Aragorn had collected over the topsoil to make a proper grave. The sticks he used to disguise the grave, hoping it might offer a little protection from animals and humans alike. "There," the Elf declared once he was finished.

Now that that unpleasant task had been dealt with, Legolas was eager to get going but rather than following him over to the bags, Aragorn instead sat down, legs folded underneath him, next to the newly dug grave.

The Elf released an annoyed sigh of frustration at the continued delay despite having indulged Aragorn in what he wanted, and said sharply, "We have to leave now." The boy continued to completely ignore his command though and Legolas saw him shuddering with sobs again. "Aragorn."

Death had become so terribly commonplace in his life by now that it hardly even affected him anymore, so it was strange to watch the deep, painful grief others still associated with the passing of another. Even so, he couldn't understand Aragorn's desire to wallow rather than just move onwards. Moving made everything easier to bear. Standing still only allowed Legolas to dwell on that terrible aching pain deep in his heart and no good could come of that.

Dispassionately, Legolas strode over to him and hauled him roughly to his feet. "We can't stay here any longer. It's too dangerous."

"I don't want to go," Aragorn cried, fighting weakly against Legolas' comparatively strong grip.

"We have to leave."

Ignoring the boy's increasingly pitiful cries of protest, Legolas picked him up, avoiding his kicking legs, and carried him towards where the bags were resting, then dropped him back onto his feet, keeping one arm firmly wrapped securely around him so he couldn't escape no matter how much he struggled and, with his free hand, picked the bags up.

"Come on now," Legolas said coldly, dragging the child, quite literally kicking and screaming, away from the gravesite. "I am sorry," the Elf murmured more calmly, sympathetically, as he hauled Aragorn from where his father laid buried beneath the earth, knowing already that they would never return to this place.

Returning to the muddy road, despite the squirming, screaming child he dragged along beside him, Legolas felt a sense of peace returning to him. It never failed to amaze him how much familiarity soothed him. And he needed the familiar right then when everything else was so up in the air.

Aragorn's protesting squirming did not last long and pretty soon they were far enough away from the place of Arathorn's demise that Legolas felt confident enough in letting the boy walk alone without the fear of him running back to the side of his father's grave. The boy did not so much as attempt to run though. He walked in miserable silence behind his new guardian, solemn and moping, his head bowed to the ground. Legolas didn't bother trying to talk to him; he preferred the silence no matter how sulky it was.

Legolas only looked back at the young Aragorn when his sharp hearing picked up the sound of faltering footsteps. He turned in time to see the boy catch himself just before he fell to the ground. Only then did Legolas realise that it was getting dark again. Night was descending and the Elf considered that the weakened human child would probably be getting weary by now.

"Are you tired?" Legolas asked evenly as Aragorn slowly caught up with him. The child made no attempt to answer; indeed he did not even look up at Legolas' voice. "Well, I want to keep walking so…"

Frustrated by Aragorn's stubborn continued lack of response to his words, Legolas turned sharply around and started walking quickly again, relieved, much to his intense surprise, to hear small footsteps on the sludgy ground behind him. Why should he change his decades-old, comforting regime for anyone? So he continued onwards, ignoring the darkness that was starting to blacken the land as night fell. Behind him, now Aragorn was crying softly again, as he had been doing intermittently throughout the afternoon. In truth, the sound was starting to grate on the Elf's nerves and he had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping in annoyance at the morose child.

This time, the crying did not cease as it had done previously, and Legolas heard him stumbling more frequently as they walked onwards. When the boy tripped in the now full darkness of night, Legolas stopped angrily and retraced his steps. Aragorn remained knelt on the ground, shivering slightly from the chill that had formed in the air, his arms wrapped tightly around himself and shuddering with unrestrained sobs.

Finally, Legolas took pity on the weeping child and crouched down in front of him to pull the blanket from his bag. He swung the thin fabric around Aragorn's shoulders then stood up, leaning down to pick the boy up from the ground.

When Legolas lifted the trembling child into his arms, he felt Aragorn immediately snuggle closely against his chest. The boy wrapped his short legs securely around Legolas' thin waist and buried his face in Legolas' shoulder with a dull cry. The Elf gently ran his hand over the boy's trembling back in response and started walking again. Aragorn's weight slowed him down a bit but so long as he was on the move his speed didn't really matter.

It wasn't too much longer before Aragorn's cries stopped altogether and Legolas felt him growing limp in his arms. The child had finally fallen asleep.

Despite the fact that he too was tired and Aragorn's weight in his arms was dragging him down, as he walked the painfully familiar steps of the Old Forest Road Legolas felt what he considered to be closest thing to contentment he was capable of feeling anymore.

In just a few hours, and after one stupid, reckless mistake, his world had been completely turned upside down. In a world where nothing was certain, he liked to keep the things he could control in his life constant, unchangeable. This had thrown him off balance. And yet he felt, for the first time in the twenty long years of his exile, like he had finally done something worthwhile. True, things had been dramatically changed but now his conscience was clear with regards to the human and his son. Legolas remembered, as he looked down at the bereft child in his arms, what it felt like to actively protect and preserve life rather than to passively watch it pass him by.

Legolas walked all night long without pause with Aragorn securely held in his arms. Only when the boy stirred with the dawn did Legolas finally stop and lay the child down on the side of the road. He had rather hoped that Aragorn would remain asleep a little longer – the boy was far easier to deal with when he was asleep – but he woke not long after they'd stopped.

Aragorn opened tired, heavy eyes to find that dull grey light now brightened the land. He was laid on his back on the cold, damp ground and he shivered slightly from the chill. For a moment, he was peaceful and untroubled. But then he realised that there were no blankets swathing him as when he usually woke and he could not feel the presence of his father nearby. His father never strayed whilst he slept.

Then he remembered all that had recently occurred and grief swept through him in a way he had not experienced before. Tears sprang to his aching eyes and he shuddered, this time not from the cold. He was all alone in the world.

No, not alone. Someone was with him, he remembered.

Aragorn sat up quickly with a gasp and his eyes darted around. No one was near and he heard no sound. There were no trees here, only dull grey damp rocks near the narrow muddy road that Aragorn recalled walking down recently with his father whilst they were held in the grasp of the monsters who'd ambushed them unexpectedly.

Wrapping his arms tightly around himself to ease his shudders, Aragorn squinted out into the mist that had once more descended around him. He had could have sworn that someone had been with him before; certainly he had not gotten to the strange, unfamiliar place himself. Surely someone must have carried him here. Suddenly, he felt so terribly lonely. He had never been entirely by himself before and he found that he didn't like the feeling one bit. Even a complete stranger – which was all he could have realistically hoped for now that his father had left him – would have been better than this awful solitude in this strange and frightening place. Confused and scared, Aragorn buried his face in his knees and cried.

Aragorn sat crying softly to himself for what seemed to be hours on end, although he convinced himself that it wasn't actually as long as it felt. Slowly, his tears finally spent, the boy wiped his face on the sleeve of his jacket and climbed to his feet. Now that he was all alone he thought that perhaps he should move off the roadside. It was walking so blatantly down the path that had gotten he and his father captured by the evil monsters in the first place; he didn't want to stumble across them again anytime soon.

Taking a step forward, Aragorn looked about himself skittishly but didn't move further. Despair welled up inside him again as he debated with himself what to do next. Should he stay and wait for the man who had rescued him from the monsters to return or should he run while he had the chance? Another despairing sob escaped him and he sat back down hard on the ground in defeat.

One thing he was certain of: he wanted his dad.

Wallowing in misery was oddly comforting so when Aragorn heard quick, soft footsteps approaching, he was vaguely disappointed. The time for decision-making was over; his guardian – if that was what one who just up and left with no word could be called – had returned.

The footsteps stopped but Aragorn did not bother looking up. No one spoke and after a while curiosity piqued in him. A soft sniffing sound came and Aragorn frowned as he opened his eyes and looked down to find a snuffling, wet black nose on the end of a rusty-brown snout sniffing his shoes. Startled, Aragorn lifted his head to find a dog looking up at him with big, kind brown eyes.

"Hello," Aragorn whispered, holding out his hand for the dog to smell.

The animal whined briefly, uncertain whether to approach further.

"Come on. It's alright, I won't hurt you," Aragorn encouraged, rubbing his fingers together in a beckoning gesture.

Once more the dog sniffed the air cautiously, judging whether or not it was safe to approach, then it stepped closer and licked Aragorn's fingers before rubbing its head against Aragorn's hand. Aragorn laughed softly at the friendly action and stroked the dog's ears, which although caked in mud from the road, were velvet to the touch. Moving closer still, the dog sniffed Aragorn's clothes and nudged at his pockets as if searching for food. As the curious creature tickled him with its twitching whiskers and licked his face, Aragorn chuckled softly, running its hands over its dusty coat.

Suddenly, the dog's ears pricked up and it backed away from Aragorn, its teeth now bared and a deep growl resonating from its throat. Aragorn, astounded by the sudden change, shifted onto his knees and reached out his hand imploringly towards his new friend. The dag barked fiercely and Aragorn flinched a little but still kept trying to tempt the dog closer, wanting contact with something that would protect him from the scary new place he found himself in.

As Aragorn slowly shifted closer to the dog, whose hackles were now raised in warning, a gloved hand suddenly grabbed his wrist and thrust it away.

"What are you doing?" Legolas demanded as Aragorn fell back in fright.

Legolas looked across at the growling dog, whose ears now lay flat back against its head and had its teeth bared. "Get out of here," the Elf commanded, kicking the dog in the side so it whimpered pathetically and cowered out of his way.

Aragorn reached towards the dog in horror as Legolas shooed it away carelessly.

"Keep away from it," Legolas shouted when he noticed the child edging towards the creature. "Damned mutts!" He picked up a handful of pebbles from the side of the road and threw them at the dog so it barked and hurried away into the mist. Legolas turned to Aragorn and commanded, "Don't touch those things. They're dangerous. What is wrong with you? Those filthy animals are crawling with disease and you don't even know if it's friendly or not. Are you so sheltered that you know nothing about the world?" Legolas yelled angrily. His anger was not potent enough to last long though and, taking a deep breath, he looked down at the child and when he saw him, exclaimed in annoyance, "Don't start crying for…"

Tears had pooled in Aragorn's eyes and he shuddered slightly. Legolas had just chased away his only friend in the world. Grief tore at him again and his tears slipped down his cheeks.

Legolas sighed, this time in frustration, at himself for losing his temper so easily. It hadn't been his intention to make the boy cry. Running his hands over his face to cool his anger, Legolas crouched in front of Aragorn and said in a softer voice, "I am sorry, but you have to be more careful."

If Legolas was expecting an apology in return then he was disappointed, for although Aragorn stopped crying, he made no effort to speak at all.

"Would you like some water?" Legolas asked, holding out the peace-offering for the boy.

With tears still in his eyes, Aragorn reluctantly stretched out his hand for the flask. He didn't like this person his care had been left in, so abrupt and seemingly cruel, but he was desperately thirsty so he drank greedily from the canteen, ignoring the fact that the water was stale. He swallowed thickly, then went to hand the flask back to Legolas but he had already wandered off again, searching through his bags for something.

"Stay here," Legolas commanded the boy, drawing what looked to be a small bow and two dart-like arrows from inside the bag.

Before Aragorn had a chance to stop Legolas from leaving, he'd already vanished into the mist. Aragorn sat up straight again, tempted to run after the strange man who'd rescued him from the monsters but he found himself afraid to venture into the unknown.

He didn't know how long he waited alone but by the time Legolas returned, Aragorn was laid down again. He didn't bother to move as Legolas came close to him and dropped the heavy corpse of the dog on the ground. He only let out a horrified cry, which Legolas completely ignored and knelt down, whipping a hunting knife from the leather belt beneath his jacket and started skinning the brown dog who had been Aragorn's friend so briefly.

As Legolas skilfully and heartlessly skinned the canine carcass, Aragorn laid down wretchedly on his side, facing away from the gruesome scene, covered his ears with his hands and closed his eyes. He didn't want to know what was happening, didn't even want to think about it. He didn't want to have anything to do with this horrific new world he found himself in.

It was some time before Legolas spoke again. "We have to find shelter. There is rain coming." When the boy remained curled up in the same spot, Legolas walked over to him to pick up the forgotten canteen of water and prompted impatiently, "Now, Aragorn!"

Slowly, Aragorn unfurled his body and climbed to his feet. His head was bowed but he found that he had to rapidly avert his eyes when he caught sight of the remains of his canine friend, who had been so thoroughly butchered by Legolas. Nausea rose in his throat but he took a deep breath, and without looking back, hurried after Legolas, who was already striding away.

Aragorn had to run to keep up with his guardian, so by the time they veered off the road itself he was struggling to remain at his side.

"Keep up," Legolas snapped back at him, glancing over his shoulder at the boy.

Tears of anger and frustration welled up in Aragorn's eyes but he did not allow them to fall this time. He didn't want Legolas to see him cry again – not over his words anyway.

"In here." Legolas led him into a hollow, naturally dug into the side of a steep bank about a minute's walk from the main road. The space was nowhere near as pleasant to be in as the cave Legolas usually used to avoid the inclement weather but he had been here before when absolutely necessary and it was good enough to keep them dry for a while.

The hollow was unpleasantly damp inside and smelt heavily of the wet earth. Tree roots hung from the ceiling and tracked vein-like patterns on the muddy uncomfortable ground. Aragorn was just about able to stand up straight in the centre of the hole but behind him the much taller Legolas had to bend and crouch to be able to stand inside. The Elf shrugged off the bags – now heavier due to the meat he wrapped in cloth for later – and sat down in the centre of the small hole where there was most room.

Meanwhile, Aragorn retreated to the very back of the hollow and laid down, curled up on the cold, damp earth. He pillowed his head on his arm and watched as Legolas shrugged out of his jacket and shirt, revealing yet another layer of clothes underneath. Aragorn frowned and squinted in the dim light, trying to make out the symbols emblazoned on the clothing. He didn't recognise them as meaning anything but he was fascinated nonetheless. In his mind, he reached out and traced the intricate patterns. They were in gold thread on dark green fabric that was ripped and torn almost to the point of being useless and, even in the poor light of the dug-out hollow, glittered ever so slightly as if enchanted in some way.

Legolas realised after a moment that Aragorn was staring at him but, as he looked over, the boy's grey eyes swept away.

"We'll rest here for a while," Legolas said, breaking the silence, startling Aragorn slightly. The boy just nodded, resting his head back down on his arm.

To busy himself until the rain stopped, Legolas reorganised the bags, even though he did so every time he stopped so it wasn't strictly necessary. Next time he stopped outdoors he would build a fire so he could cook his feast of dead dog. True, the overly-sensitive Aragorn might not eat it – the boy looked thoroughly disgusted by the whole thing – but Legolas knew by now that it was imperative he took every possible opportunity to eat whatever came his way. Over the years, he had learned to be squeamish about nothing. And if the child would not touch it then there would be more for him. Why should he care if the boy starved because of his own foolishness? If that happened then at least he would not be burdened with the responsibility of the child. No, he would not lament being rid of this particular burden despite his previous feelings towards him.

Legolas sighed and glanced over to Aragorn, who was laid in the mud as far back as he could get. It hadn't taken long for the boy to fall asleep and Legolas had left him alone. If he wanted to sulk then at least he kept quiet as he did so.

Legolas' frown softened, however, as he watched Aragorn. In his sleep, the child looked so innocent, so utterly oblivious to what awaited him in his future; the fate that would one day inexorably destroy him. Arathorn had confessed before his demise what his son represented. He had spoken in hushed, secretive tones of Aragorn's heritage, his place in the world of Men and of his hopes for the child's future. He had spoken with fading optimism, undeserved, of what Aragorn would achieve when he grew up. But, how, Legolas wondered, could such a small, seemingly feeble child be one day as powerful as Arathorn hoped?

Shaking his head to rid it of all these confusing thoughts, Legolas refocused his gaze once more on the young child in his care. Right at that moment, he wished the boy no harm. He could not.

Noticing Aragorn shivering, Legolas realised that it was cold in the hole under the ground and he replaced his jacket on his own body before reaching over to his bag and retrieving his blanket to lie over the boy. As he tucked the threadbare blanket around Aragorn, he wondered at his own actions, seeming so horribly foreign to him. Surely this was not the action of someone who was indifferent, who did not care.

He scoffed quietly at himself and sat back against the earthen wall. The past few days had been eventful to say the least and they had left him feeling drained. Hunger gnawed painfully in his belly but he was used enough to that by now that he found it easy to ignore. He shivered slightly from the cold and adjusted the gloves on his hands, rubbing them up and down his arms in a futile attempt to banish the chill.

Outside the shelter of the small hollow the rain pounded the land just as Legolas had predicted. For a while, he watched as it streamed down in front of the opening. Reaching over, he pulled out the two flasks he carried – one of them stolen from Arathorn's belongings – and uncapped them both before crawling towards the hollow's entrance and planting both flasks in the mud out in the rain. This was not the destructive acid rain that had fallen from the skies just a couple of days previously but rather the vital, fresh water that remained rare and he knew to take advantage.

Once one of the flasks was full to the brim, Legolas retrieved it and drank long of the refreshingly cool water. It felt good to be able to drink like this as it filled his stomach, giving the sensation like he had eaten a full, satisfying meal.

After completely draining the canteen, Legolas returned it outside to refill.

The rain did not cease as darkness fell and Legolas found the chill in the air deepening. Normally when it was this cold he would wrap up in his – albeit thin – blanket and wait for the dawn. But tonight Aragorn possessed his only source of warmth.

He glanced over at the boy, who had curled up even tighter and was now facing away from him. Legolas remembered a time when he had been able to sleep that peacefully, remembered the luxurious feel of his own large bed in Mirkwood and being tucked in at night by his mother or father. He remembered peace and warmth and what it felt like to be looked after and protected. How he now longed to feel those things once more. The desire ached in his chest and he absently raised his hand to his heart, closing his eyes with a pained sigh. He hated these quiet, still moments when he had chance to reflect on the way things used to be. Even the world as it was was better than these imaginings of what used to be, of what could never be again.

Aragorn came back to awareness slowly. First, he smelled the unpleasant earthy smell around him and an image of his dream of being buried alive flashed through his mind, making him sit up too quickly, banging his head on the low ceiling of the hollow with a soft yelp.

Rubbing the top of his throbbing head, Aragorn blinked his eyes, trying to see where he was or at least where Legolas was but the hole was so completely dark and he couldn't see more than a couple of inches in front of him. Night had obviously fallen as he slept.

From outside he could hear only the soft pattering of rain. He strained his hearing but couldn't hear anything from inside the shelter. He wondered again where Legolas was. Quite possibly, he was sat right next to him, it was impossible to tell in the dark. Or had his guardian left him already?

Aragorn went to stand then and realised with surprise that at some time he had been covered in a blanket; the same one that had so recently shrouded his father and despite the rather macabre nature of it he appreciated the relative warmth and comfort it provided him.

However, he now pushed the blanket aside and, purposefully minding his head this time, got up onto his knees. He was cold and hungry and thirsty, so decided to deal with the easiest complaint first. Vaguely, Aragorn recalled Legolas dumping the bags somewhere along the unevenly carved walls of the hole so he got up, being careful not to stand up completely straight until he was roughly in the centre so he didn't hit his head on the sloping roof. Legolas was no longer sitting in the middle of the hollow as he had been last time Aragorn had been awake and again the boy squinted in the darkness in an attempt to make out even the outline of his guardian.

Deciding that he would worry about Legolas later if he had to, Aragorn continued his blind search.

He didn't get very far though, as after just a few awkward, shuffling steps, Aragorn tripped on something. At first he thought it to be just a tree root but this particular root emitted an irritated grunting noise and shifted on the ground. Roots didn't tend to do either thing.

"What are you doing?" Legolas asked through the darkness. Of course, he knew it could be no one but Aragorn stumbling blindly around.

"I was looking for the water," Aragorn answered, attempting to position Legolas by the sound of his quiet voice.

The Elf forced himself up from where he'd been laid on the ground, trying to determine when exactly he'd fallen asleep. It was pitch black in the hollow so it was almost certainly still night. At least he hadn't slept past dawn.

Easily, he picked up the flask from his side and shook it so Aragorn could identify from the sloshing its whereabouts in the dark.

Almost blindly, Aragorn reached out towards the sloshing sound until his hand collided with Legolas and he awkwardly took the flask.

Legolas, meanwhile, stretched over and extended his hand out of the entrance to feel cold rain still falling reasonably steadily. "Have as much as you like. We'll actually have plentiful chance to refill them for a change."

Aragorn did not reply to him so Legolas laid back on the cold soil and closed his eyes. After a minute, he heard Aragorn quickly gulping down the water and he couldn't resist and unseen smile. At least the child was quiet, he mused. In his mind, the noise of boisterous, young, energetic Elflings still echoed from his thoughts before he'd fallen asleep and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, at once both grateful that the noise wasn't real and disturbed by the ghostly memory.

Legolas listened as the boy finished drinking and screwed on the top on the canteen, then as he carefully placed it back on the ground.

"Did you sleep well?" Legolas murmured awkwardly, attempting to make conversation.

There was a long silence during which Legolas seriously wondered whether his ice-breaking question would petulantly go unanswered, but then Aragorn, so quietly Legolas would have had to strain his hearing had he not been of Elven blood, said, "Yes."

"Good. We have to get moving again at the break of dawn."

"Why?" Aragorn whispered curiously.

"Excuse me?" Legolas asked, sitting up and opening his eyes even though he could only see the outline of the child.

"Why do we have to leave at dawn?"

Legolas shrugged in the darkness and fumblingly replied rather tersely, "Because…Just because."

"Oh."

"Hey, if you want to do something different, go right ahead; see how far you get on your own," Legolas snapped in irritation, which was most definitely unjustified. A moment later he heard Aragorn haltingly making his way to the back of the hollow beneath his blanket, followed by the unmistakeable sound of shuddering cries. "Uh, why must you always cry?" he ground out.

"Leave me alone," Legolas heard Aragorn breathe fiercely.

Feeling a little like a petulant child, for which behaviour his late father would have severely berated, Legolas rolled onto his side, his back to the boy. He knew he should not have been so cruel to the child. He remembered all too well the burning pain of loss and how hard it was to bear. Patience was a virtue he had once possessed in abundance yet now eluded him completely. How this world had failed him, had changed him beyond all recognition – and he wasn't entirely sure he liked this person he had become.

**To Be Continued…**


	5. The Grove of Horrors Abound

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**O I O I**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**Warning: The title says it all: horror abound.**

**A/N: Please review. I love reading them. Thanks to all those who have already reviewed, I really appreciate it.**

**O I O I**

**Chapter 5**

**The Grove of Horrors Abound**

"Where are we going?" Aragorn asked breathlessly as he simultaneously hurried after Legolas and dodged the large, water-filled potholes that pitted the Old Forest Road.

Legolas sighed in impatience. He was so tired of hearing that same question. Rationally, he knew that if he replied to it, the child would cease to bother him but in truth he feared to answer; to speak the lamentable truth that he had no intended destination.

"Just keep up," Legolas snapped back, adjusting the straps of his bag over his shoulder.

"Why can't I know where we're going?"

Taking a steadying breath, Legolas muttered, "I think I preferred it when you kept your silence."

For four weeks now they had been together and after that first rainy night when Legolas' patience had been at its weakest, confined as he was in the thick darkness and swallowed by painful memories, Aragorn had barely spoken a word to him. When, after the rain had ceased, Legolas had started them walking again, moving in almost complete silence – Aragorn presumably sulking and Legolas uncertain as to how to break the tension that had arisen between them. It had been of his own making so he reasoned that he should be made to suffer the consequences of his words.

It had felt oddly absurd to the Elf to not speak at all in the presence of another and also he felt relieved that Aragorn felt there was no need for words. He had not conversed with another for decades and wondered perhaps if he had forgotten how.

When, finally, the boy did begin to talk to him, he was quiet and hesitant, afraid of the man appointed his guardian. And Legolas had encouraged his increased interest, for the boy's sour look had started to bother him after a while.

So, this new irritating behaviour was once more of his own making, he supposed.

"Can't I even have a clue?" Aragorn persisted, undeterred.

"We're not _going_ anywhere."

"So what are we…?"

"Please stop with the questions!" Legolas finally snapped, halting abruptly and turning on the boy.

Aragorn also stopped in his tracks, startled by the sudden change in his guardian's mood. Legolas had never actually yelled at him before. He didn't like it one bit. His father would never have yelled at him. Hanging his head, Aragorn hid his eyes to conceal his tears. He knew how much Legolas hated to see tears.

"I am sorry," Legolas apologised in a hard voice. "But _this_ is what I do. Walk."

Slowly, reluctantly, Aragorn's eyes came up to meet Legolas' and he saw kindness in those strange blue eyes for the first time since they had met. So he dared to pose another question. "Why?"

At first, Legolas glared down at him in exasperation but when he noticed the hint of fear behind Aragorn's eyes, his face softened and he exhaled slowly to keep his calm. "Because I do not know anything else," he answered quietly.

The words not only surprised the ward but the guardian also. They were spoken in absolute truth but he had never really dwelled on the reasoning behind his constant, repetitive travelling. Embarrassment flushed his hollow cheeks and he turned away from the boy – partly to hide the tell-tale blush but also the pain that flashed across his features, pain which resurfaced every time he so much as touched upon the subject of the past.

"Father and I used to travel a lot; but we walked with the Rangers," Aragorn continued speaking as they started walking once more.

"Yes, I know." Legolas felt a surge of relief at the change of subject, grateful that the boy's mind never lingered on one topic for too long.

"They went all around the lands."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, but I don't remember much of it; I was just a baby at the time."

"Hmm." Legolas looked over his shoulder at the once more cheerful child and asked, "Your father never said: why did you leave the Ranger's protection?"

Aragorn shrugged, his face forming a thoughtful frown. "I don't know. They didn't send us away, I don't think. We just…left one day. Father said we had to go out on our own."

"Why would he wish to leave the shield of protection they provided?"

"I'm not sure."

Legolas pondered upon this strange – and ultimately fatal - decision by Arathorn. In a world where danger and death lurked in every place, if someone held the companionship of great warriors willing to protect them, it seemed foolish to readily give it up. What had Arathorn been thinking, putting not only himself but also his young son in such unnecessary danger? Not even Aragorn's future fate called for such an irrational action. Or was there something more that Arathorn hadn't confided in the prince?

"Legolas?"

"Yes?"

"Do you remember your father?" the small child asked in innocence.

The question sent a cold chill of horror down Legolas' spine and brought back the deep ache in his heart and, a moment later, only after Aragorn had called his name a couple of times, Legolas realised that he had stopped dead and that his hand had flown to his breast, covering his heart.

"That…" he started but found it impossible to speak past the lump in his throat for a moment. "That is none of your…Come on," he ended up saying gruffly instead, hurrying away, purposefully too fast in order to put some distance between himself and Aragorn.

Behind him, the boy fell mercifully silent as he now followed at a distance. Legolas knew that his words would result in another bout of sulking but this time he couldn't bring himself to care.

Although Aragorn eventually caught up with and walked closer to Legolas he asked no further questions, Legolas' words still stinging in his mind. Darkness soon began to descend and Aragorn looked up to his guardian in order to figure out whether they were going to stop as they did every night but now Legolas showed no signs of halting or even slowing. Aragorn recalled his companion mention once that he often walked for days on end without rest but so far that had never happened in Aragorn's presence. Grey eyes peered out from under a thin hood to look up at Legolas in concern. Had he angered his guardian so much that he was going to be punished for his loose tongue?

Aragorn really needn't have worried though. When it became too dark to see the hardened mud of the road beneath their feet, Legolas peeled off the trodden path and laid their bags down.

"We'll stop here," Legolas told the boy without looking at him. "Rest while you can."

Nights without food had become so common by now that Aragorn no longer even expected it and yet, as he laid down on the hard, cracked ground, he felt a pang of hunger deep in his belly and the misery associated with the feeling set in. He wrapped his arm around his stomach in an attempt to alleviate the discomfort.

He heard Legolas sit down heavily beside him – although noticeably further away than usual. The night was quiet as it always was but this night Aragorn found the silence harder to bear. Granted, Legolas never normally chatted freely with him as his father had done when they been together but their quiet had never been quite so strained.

Finally, unable to sleep, Aragorn's resolve broke and without looking behind him at Legolas, he asked nervously, "Are you angry with me?"

The silence that followed was too long, contradicting his guardian's answer of, "No. Go to sleep."

Aragorn sighed, adjusting the arm that was pillowed beneath his head. At least it wasn't cold this night. And it was dry. Another blessing, for he absolutely despised the rain.

Eventually, Aragorn completely gave up on trying to get to sleep, even though he was weary from the long days' travel. He sat up and glanced over at Legolas sitting nearby, pointedly not watching him as Aragorn knew he often did at night.

"I can't sleep," the boy announced.

Legolas looked up at him, a sharp retort poised on his tongue, but at the last second he swallowed it back. "Then don't sleep," he settled for instead.

"Alright," he sighed softly.

Aragorn sat up straight, bringing his legs up and hugging his knees. For a moment, he gazed around the roadside but it was now full darkness and there was little to see, so his eyes were instead drawn once again to Legolas. He could just about see his guardian through the night now that his eyes had adjusted to the lack of light. Legolas was sat up perfectly straight, his eyes lowered towards his hands, which were skilfully sharpening the knife he always carried. Aragorn watched long, pale fingers, for a change void of their gloves, work confidently and skilfully. He rapidly bored of the mind-numbingly repetitive motion of his guardian's deft hands and his eyes shifted back to Legolas' face and suddenly startled.

He had just realised what was different about Legolas – besides the especially bad mood he was in. He no longer had his hood raised.

Long blonde hair spilled down lanky overly-thin shoulders, dirty and uncombed but tucked neatly behind softly pointed ears. Aragorn lifted his head to get a better look, squinting through the darkness in wonder. Legolas had never had his hood lowered before, at least not while Aragorn looked upon him, so he had never seen the man before, not properly.

"What…?" the boy started but found that he had no question formed well enough to ask.

Legolas, however, looked up from what he was doing. "What?"

"You…" Aragorn got to his knees and shuffled closer to Legolas. As the boy held out his hand, reaching towards him, Legolas frowned and went to ask what he was doing but then soft, slightly hesitant fingers ghosted over his ear and he realised with a start what the fascination was. His hand shot out to grab Aragorn's wrist but he did not drag the inquisitive hand down and Aragorn continued to curiously probe the pointed tip of Legolas' sensitive ear.

"You're not human," Aragorn finally breathed.

Finally, Legolas' hand tightened around Aragorn's wrist and moved the hand away. "No," he nevertheless answered honestly.

Aragorn searched his memory of his father's tales for mention of those beings on Middle Earth who looked like Legolas did and found one, exclaiming, "You're an Elf!"

"Yes."

"But you…I didn't know."

"Perhaps you should be more observant in future then." It wasn't said meanly but rather with a touch of amusement.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think it was important." Legolas looked down at the boy with no small amount of concern and asked, "_Is_ it important?"

In the dark, Aragorn shrugged. "I suppose not. I would just have liked to have known."

"Then I apologise," Legolas said in all sincerity.

Aragorn had never heard him speak with such softness and for the very first time he felt the cold, unwanted bond they had been forced into mellow ever so slightly.

Arathorn had tried to teach his son as much about the old world as he could, even though such legend was barely within living memory anymore, and had, around the fire as night descended, told an enraptured Aragorn of the legends of the ancient and enigmatic race of the Elves. Now, Aragorn sifted through his memory, clamouring to find references.

"Do you live forever?" the boy finally asked.

Legolas repressed a sigh at the renewed questioning but vowed to not allow the questions to become too personal for comfort again. "I am immortal, yes."

"But you _can_ die?"

"If injured, yes." He failed to mention that his kind could also fade – soul and body - from the earth as a result of deep, unshakeable grief that plagued their fragile hearts in the wake of great loss and sadness.

"But you never grow old?"

"I have been on this earth for over two thousand years," Legolas replied simply, picturing Aragorn's curious grey eyes widening in surprise at the incomprehensible – for a human, anyway - number.

"So you remember…?"

"Yes." The Elf didn't require Aragorn to finish his sentence to know what he was going to ask – what Middle Earth had been like before the war with Sauron. That was not the kind of thing he really wished to discuss right then; it was still too painful to even think about the things he had seen, the things he had done, let alone to talk about them.

Sensing that Legolas wasn't going to elaborate, Aragorn moved swiftly on, unwilling to miss this opportunity to interrogate an Elf. "Do you have any other powers?" he asked with almost painful innocence.

Aragorn listened intently as Legolas chuckled in amusement. "I can see further and hear more clearly than you but, powers…? No."

"Oh." Dredging up his father's words from his mind, Aragorn asked, "Can you talk to plants?"

At this, Legolas once again grew sullen. "Once, yes, but no longer."

"Why not?"

Sighing sadly, Legolas' eyes shifted about their resting place. "Because there is nothing left now to speak to." He remembered in his home, living amongst the splendid, lush forest of Mirkwood, how the trees had sang to him soft songs of sheer joy and comfort; remembered how they had endlessly rejoiced in the presence of the prince who walked freely amidst their deep roots and soaring canopies. How he had loved to sit among them and let their rich, soothing melody wash over him, ridding him of the shadow and doubt that clouded his thoughts when restricted within the sometimes cold stone walls of his father's mighty palace by duty.

"Legolas?" Aragorn's voice rang out through the night air, startling Legolas from his unwelcome reverie.

As his misty blue eyes cleared, Legolas hastily pushed those thoughts aside and shoved away the burning rising in his chest. Through no fault of Aragorn's, at the boy's words, he had fallen into painful thought again. If only he could scrub those past memories from his head so he would never have to endure their taunting images ever again.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

"For what? You have done nothing." All warmth, Aragorn noted, had now dissipated from Legolas' voice and he knew Legolas well enough now to be certain that answers to questions would no longer be forthcoming. "Get some rest now."

Realising the conversation had been officially ended, Aragorn laid down on the ground and did as instructed, closing his eyes on Legolas and the night. His mind was whirling and spinning almost dizzyingly with the new knowledge he had gained but his exhaustion was such that it was mere moments before he slipped into sleep.

Meanwhile, Legolas sat in contemplative silence until the thoughts threatened to entirely consume him in the unpleasant past once more and he pulled his dagger, stolen from a human corpse years ago and bearing no connection at all to his fallen kingdom, from his bag and started his ritual of keeping the blade clean and sharp. As long fingers curled around the crude wooden handle, a small niggle of a warning sparked in the back of his mind warning him that danger was nearby.

**OIOI**

Aragorn woke to the pale, lacklustre light of dawn cold and uncomfortable. He was laid on his back and he sat up awkwardly with a wince at the ache that had, overnight, developed in his muscles. Yawning wide, Aragorn looked around himself to find Legolas dozing lightly on the ground, closer to him than usual, a dagger resting on the ground inches from his hand as if poised and ready to use if needed. He couldn't tell if this was normal practice as it was Legolas who usually woke him in the morning.

Deciding it best not to wake Legolas whilst he slept, Aragorn dragged himself to his feet.

As he went to walk away though, Legolas' voice rang out softly through the eerie still of the morning. "Where are you going?"

Aragorn turned on the spot to see alert blue eyes watching him. "Just over there," he pointed towards some bracken on the other side of the road. He was surprised that his guardian had bothered to ask; the rule was to always remain within shouting distance, Legolas never normally wished to know precisely where he was at all times.

Now the Elf's eyes narrowed as he followed Aragorn's finger towards the bare bushes on the other side of the road. That odd niggling sensation that something was out of place that had kept him up for most of the night still lingered in the light of dawn and his fingers subconsciously twitched towards the dagger resting at his side.

"Can I go?" Aragorn fidgeted uncomfortably on the spot.

"Yes, but stay within my sight."

"What? No!" the boy protested, outraged. True, he and Legolas had warmed to each other a little but there were some private things he did not wish to share with or have the Elf witness. "I'll only be over there."

Legolas sighed in defeat, sitting upright. "Very well. But take this with you," he added quickly before Aragorn could dash away, holding the dagger out to him. Aragorn looked at him, startled. The one time he had dared to dig through the bags in search of food, Legolas had snatched them away and proceeded to warn him that the weapons contained within were sharp and dangerous to untrained hands and not to be touched. Not once had he ever suggested that Aragorn arm himself and Aragorn had never questioned that decision as he had never had to do so before; his father had always protected him from harm and he now expected Legolas, his appointed guardian, to do the same.

"Why?" Aragorn asked anxiously even as he stepped forwards.

Legolas snapped back, "Because I said so."

Disconcerted by this blunt command, Aragorn reached out and curled his hesitant fingers around the marked and scratched wooden handle. It was heavier than he'd imagined in the palm of his hand as Legolas released his careful grip on the pitted blade.

"Do not put this down," Legolas told him seriously.

"Can I go now?" the boy asked in a much less certain voice than previously.

"Yes, but…"

"Stay within shouting distance; I know."

Legolas nodded firmly and with some hesitance now Aragorn slowly turned away from the Elf. His guardian was on edge, more so than Aragorn had ever seen before and this realisation sent a twinge of fright through him. He stumbled slightly as he walked with the intention of keeping his guardian within his sights for as long as possible, but in the end, favouring staying upright, he turned to look at the path ahead of him to better concentrate on where he was putting his feet so he didn't trip over.

Hurrying behind the bush, bare but for its thick, brittle branches, Aragorn took care of his body's natural needs.

**OIOI**

Legolas found himself restless, more so than he had felt in a long, long while. In the past, he could have pinned down the potential threat that continued to infuriatingly niggle at the back of his mind with relative ease, turning to the world around him to discover the cause of the disturbance. Now, with nothing to indicate the danger, Legolas felt as if he was stumbling around in the dark, as clueless and unsettled as he had ever felt.

Yet, he recalled recently feeling this same kind of nervous energy. If only he could remember where exactly it had been.

**OIOI**

Aragorn spun around quickly at the slight rustle the sounded behind him. There was a gentle breeze this morning and it blew over him, only adding to his unease despite the fact that he should have been able to rationally dismiss the rustling as nothing more than dried out branches being disturbed by the wind. Something was wrong, he realised with growing dread. Aragorn turned back slowly with the intention of immediately returning to the relative safety of Legolas' presence but this time a twig blatantly snapped behind him, cracking through the quiet air like the snap of a whip and making him jump in fright.

Perhaps, he thought, it was a stray animal foraging through the dry undergrowth for food making the strange noises. This realisation just didn't ring true in his mind though and he shivered slightly as the breeze brought with it the potent feeling of danger.

Common sense fairly screamed at him to run back to Legolas, and yet, for some reason beyond his comprehension, his legs, almost of their own accord, carried him haltingly towards the sound. As he proceeded towards the source of the disturbance, Aragorn glanced anxiously back over his shoulder, wondering whether he remained still within shouting distance of Legolas. He would turn back soon, he resolved, whether he located the careless creature or not.

Off to Aragorn's left was a small copse of trees, their branches all stripped completely bare; no sign of life in them anymore. Aragorn rounded them with caution, now acutely aware of the weight of Legolas' dagger gripped in his small hand. Honestly, he wasn't sure if he could actually use the weapon if the situation called for it but its presence was still a reassuring thought, a last line of defence if all else failed.

Tension made him wary and he felt that he heard everything within a hundred leagues of here even though the space around him was as silent as ever. His eyes darted around anxiously, even though there was no more rustling from the trees, for now he was convinced that the noise had originated from the copse of dead trees.

As it turned out though, he was thoroughly mistaken. As he moved around the trees, there came into view a tiny oasis in the middle of the dry, cracked mud. And stood drinking from this pool was a huge stag. The impressive creature must have heard his approach as its neck snapped up and it stared wide-eyed at the human boy who'd disturbed it.

Relief immediately flooded through Aragorn when he realised that no real danger existed. He smiled at the proud creature. Such sights were rare – although he remembered his father with the Rangers had once brought down a similar beast, on which they had then feasted gladly – so Aragorn took full advantage of the opportunity, his eyes keenly studying the magnificent stag. With ribs showing through scarred, furred skin, it was clear that the creature was starving, like so many, and would have been twice the size had it been in peak condition. Amazement banished the caution that had previously rang loud in Aragorn's mind and he took a slow step forward so as not to alarm the skittish animal.

The bracken that lay beneath his clumsy feet crackled as he stepped on it and the stag suddenly bolted, running away from the intruder, their spell of mutual interest broken.

"Wait," Aragorn called and instinctively went to chase after it.

His chase was thwarted, however, by a rock in his path tripping him up. He fell hard, sprawled on his front on the dry ground, the dagger flying from his now loose grip to land a couple of feet away from him. Groaning softly at his stupidity, he climbed up to a slightly more elegant sitting position and cradled his grazed knee with a hiss of pain. The beast he had been so curious about had, by now, long disappeared. After uttering a curse he had once heard his father use, Aragorn went to drag himself to his feet, only to find his jacket snagged on something.

Turning awkwardly, Aragorn grabbed his jacket and, after discovering that tugging would not free it, dug into the bracken with his fingers to disentangle himself. Finally free, he pulled himself up and looked down in exasperation at that which had held him.

Shock shot through him, numbing and paralysing his body so he physically couldn't move from the spot upon which he had frozen. Then came the terror, making him quake where he stood. His mouth opened to scream but he found that he was incapable of making any sound louder than a whispered whimper. He longed to run but he couldn't get his stiff legs to work. Suddenly, he became aware that he no longer held his dagger and although he didn't know that in this particular situation it would do him much good, he craved its reassuring weight in his hand once more. No, he craved protection. That was what he needed. He needed Legolas.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Aragorn finally found that feeling had returned to his legs and he was at last able to turn and run. The watering hole and small dead grove of barren trees had appeared so innocent earlier in his distraction. But now, as he really saw it, he noticed the gruesome sights that littered the trees and the clearing surrounding them.

Crude wooden stakes had been driven into the hard ground amongst and around the trees. On top of each of these was impaled the heads of what looked to be humans in varying degrees of mutilation and decomposition. No doubt one of these, perhaps even the closest to Aragorn, which still oozed thick, black blood, belonged to the torso – minus arms and legs – that Aragorn had just fallen over.

Unable to take all this horror, Aragorn just stood staring, essentially trapped in this place now.

**OIOI**

Legolas was running even before the he heard the shrill scream of the child he had been charged with looking after. White-handled knives were clenched in his hands and he charged along the path he presumed Aragorn had also taken.

As he neared the copse of trees from which the scream had come, Legolas noticed the warning signs that his young companion, in his distraction, had failed to spot. He spat out an ancient and thoroughly filthy Elvish curse when he saw the pile of bodies, stripped of all meaningful flesh and left to rot into the tainted earth. Easily, he dodged the stakes bearing their gruesome warnings and finally he saw the young Aragorn staring in dumb shock into the trees amongst which stood more grotesque signs that depravity and evil held sway over this portion of land.

"Aragorn," Legolas called loudly, gaining no response from the shocked child, so the Elf continued to run and simply snatched Aragorn up into his arms and ran as fast as he could, carrying the boy away from the grisly sights, eager to be away before what he feared most occurred.

It was not to be, however. Aragorn heard a great roar echo around them and Legolas quickly spun to face the evil monsters that were by now bearing down on them. Quickly, Legolas dropped Aragorn on his feet and took his knives in each hand once more.

"Stand tall," he told Aragorn as the boy clung to his leg in fear. "Do not be afraid."

Before Aragorn could shamelessly plea with Legolas to stay with him, the Elf had charged towards the Orcs that were emerging from the trees with frightening fury. The boy's eyes closed of their own accord as Legolas clashed head-on with the monsters, not wanting to see his one and only friend brutally cut down.

Legolas fought with well-practiced precision and fury, as was necessary when battling the merciless creatures of Sauron. Ever conscious was he of the child behind him and he actively worked to keep the monsters at bay, to keep them from reaching the terrified child who cowered. There were too many of the Orcs for one warrior though and, as they continued to trample through the trees, he came to the realisation that he would soon be completely overwhelmed by them.

The Prince of Mirkwood did not fear death; he had not feared it since he had watched helplessly as his father was cut down by the filth of Sauron's legions within the besieged palace of his people, but now Legolas worried deeply for the child recently entrusted into his care, for the boy did not seek death as he did and did not deserve it either. That warmth that had just started to form between them paled – worryingly – in comparison to the protectiveness that this threat of danger stirred in Legolas. Nothing could happen to that child – he had promised Arathorn that and he intended to stick to his vow, even if he had to die for the cause.

The fight was, as always with the Orcs, dirty and brutal. Legolas' arms ached with exertion as he slashed and stabbed without pause, abandoning his traditional graceful Elven moves for a more base, sharp fighting style, preferring speed over accuracy on this occasion. As long as his enemy was disabled and unable to continue attacking then he was sufficiently satisfied.

Aragorn stood back, pressed against the rock that stood behind where Legolas had unceremoniously dumped him. His hands remained clenched into tight fists as he willed his body to do _something_, even if it was the simple action of opening his eyes. All around him he could hear the uproar of the on-going battle and the noises scared him too much to do anything at all. He was terrified of seeing the broken bodies again and of witnessing the battle in which Legolas would almost certainly fall. So, he crouched there, blind to the storm that pulsed and slammed around him.

So far no one had seemed to have noticed him – no doubt currently distracted by the Elf attacking them – but he couldn't imagine going unnoticed for very much longer. Perhaps he too would be killed this day and his whirring mind suggested that perhaps that would be better than having to live all alone in the world.

Being weakened as he was, it wasn't long before the adrenaline wore off and his aching turned into genuine fatigue. Of course, Legolas would not stop as long as the Orcs continued to attack. Aragorn needed him now. Mercifully, the Orcs were, as they had always been, exceptionally stupid fighters and did not have the wits to recognise and take advantage of the Elf's fatigue.

Legolas, in the end, was saved by the most unexpected of things. Above the noise of the battle came a loud, high-pitched roar of savage anger and suddenly there were many more involved in the skirmish. Pale-faced wild Men came running through the bare trees, weapons raised, screaming a dreadful battle cry.

The Elf momentarily drew back as the Orcs were also distracted by the sheer base, feral ferocity of this unforeseen onslaught. At first, Legolas feared that the crazed Men would side with the evil creations of Sauron, as they more resembled the twisted monsters of the Dark Lord than they did Humans, but they instead immediately started slashing at whatever stood in their paths.

With the arrival of these new, savage invaders, the majority of the Orcs left standing turned their attentions to the greater threat currently posed to their lives. Still firmly on the defensive, Legolas struck down one bold Orc that threatened to get past him and head towards the cowering Aragorn, who was by now staring in utter terror at the bloody battle raging ever closer to him.

Deciding that this new, unanticipated but fortuitous assault presented the ideal opportunity to make his getaway, Legolas slowly moved away, never once turning his back on the brutal battle for fear that the distraction provided by the Wild Men would still not wholly conceal his movements.

As Legolas neared the blatantly terrified Aragorn though, something charged at him from the left, slamming into him so hard that it very nearly knocked him completely off balance and to the blood-soaked ground. The attacker – he couldn't initially be sure whether it was Orc or Human – swung a weapon at his head and he quickly ducked to avoid the crude strike before slamming his own slight weight against the much bulkier body of his attacker and pushing him to the ground to land inches from Aragorn's feet. He heard the boy's cry of fear and horror, mingled with the unpleasant dying gurgles of the Man – a Man, he realised because the blood that spurted copiously from his slit throat and that also coated Legolas' blade was bright red rather than the thick, poisonous black of the Orcs. He felt no guilt over the man's death, no matter how brutal the execution, only relief that he himself had survived another attack.

Climbing with an awkwardness that any self-respecting Elf would laugh at to his feet, Legolas reached for the still frozen boy and quite literally dragged him away.

Although Aragorn knew in some small part of his shock-numbed mind that Legolas would take him to safety and that he should follow, he simply couldn't make his body move in accordance with his mind's commands, and he ended up continuously tripping over and very nearly falling to his knees in the blood-drenched ground. Legolas' hand gripping the back of his jacket just about prevented that from happening but could not provide sufficient distraction from the horrific sight of so much death.

Darkness crept into the corners of his already blurred vision as he caught a fleeting glimpse of the grisly pile of dismembered Human corpses he had missed on his way towards the stand of trees. Just before he could fall heavily to the ground though, Legolas' confident arms had swept him up off the ground, perhaps weary of dragging his unresponsive charge along.

Dripping with blood and sweat himself, Legolas was yet another reminder of the horrors he had just watched but Aragorn did not care and he clenched his eyes shut, wrapped his arms and legs tightly around the running Elf and buried his face in Legolas' shoulder. Legolas was taking him away from all this and right at that moment that was all that mattered.

Aragorn would have liked to have kept running from the battlefield indefinitely but after only a few minutes, Legolas came to a gradual halt and Aragorn felt him down kneel on the ground. Strong hands pried him off the warm body and he found himself placed laid on his front on dried grass. He wanted to open his eyes again, to see where they were but he feared what he might see if he dared. Wanting to be close to his protector, Aragorn reluctantly reached out for Legolas and his fingers came into contact with the damp fabric of Legolas' jacket – although damp with what he did not wish to know.

Feeling Aragorn's shaking hand reaching out to him, Legolas laid his own hand on the boy's heaving back.

"Breathe," the Elf instructed in a voice so soft that Aragorn wasn't entirely sure if it had ever actually been spoken.

"Legolas…" he trembled, his hand fisting tightly around his saviour's jacket.

"We must be silent now," Legolas berated in hushed tones. "Be silent."

So Aragorn remained absolutely silent as instructed, concentrating on Legolas at his side as well as on steadying his erratic heartbeat and breathing, which he realised as it calmed had been perilously close to hyperventilation. Whenever a shaky sob escaped his lips, which was fairly often given his ordeal, Legolas' hand would slide across his back to squeeze his shoulder in reassurance and he would cling to that small act of comfort.

He didn't know how long they laid there, front down on the cold, dry ground, but to Aragorn it seemed like an eternity. Legolas never moved once and made no attempt to speak although in his self-imposed darkness Aragorn longed to hear his voice. Only occasionally would Legolas' hand stroke his ward's back very slightly, simply telling him, without having to speak and possibly give away their position, that everything was still alright.

Finally, just as his arms and legs were starting to cramp from prolonged inactivity, Legolas spoke in his normal voice, startling Aragorn slightly after so much time in silence. "We have to go now."

Suddenly terrified at the prospect of moving from this spot and perhaps drawing the attention of the attacking Orcs and Wild Men, Aragorn whimpered softly and firmly shook his head in refusal. With this renewed fear that pounded in his chest, he doubted he would be able to move his rigid body anyway. He longed to communicate this to Legolas, to make him understand that he didn't want to move from a place of safety, but he found himself unable to make his voice work either.

"It is safe now," Legolas told him confidently as he stood, lifting the trembling child into his arms again.

Aragorn clung fiercely to him once more, so the Elf did not even attempt to lower him to the ground and make him walk of his own volition; it was easier to do it this way.

Held in Legolas' arms, Aragorn relaxed a very little. If Legolas considered it to be safe then surely it must be so. He laid his head against his guardian's shoulder once more in mild relief.

In truth, Legolas was surprised when the skittish child managed to fall asleep as he walked but he was glad for it all the same. He didn't like to see the boy upset.

Legolas was actually quite relieved that, as far as he could tell, Aragorn hadn't yet opened his eyes to see his mentor covered in both the red and black blood of Man and Orc respectively. His appearance would have posed a truly terrifying sight to the already frightened boy.

He walked for as long as his legs would support him, ending up on the banks of a river. Ordinarily, he would never consider venturing so close to such a popular place, where danger often congregated, but he needed to clean himself up before Aragorn woke. So, he gently laid Aragorn down on the ground, surprised when he didn't as much as stir. He hoped that this was merely sleep and nothing more sinister. He knew nothing about Human physiology and didn't know what he would do if the boy fell ill whilst in his care.

**To Be Continued…**


	6. The River Runs Red

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Sorry this has taken so long to put up. I hope people are still reading this! Anyway, despite lack of reviews I will not abandon this story, I promise.**

**Enjoy the chapter.**

**OIOIOI**

**Chapter 6**

**The River Runs Red**

Cold air stirred around him and Aragorn shuddered, wrapping his arms tighter around himself for the warmth, pleased to discover that he was covered with Legolas' jacket. For a few moments, he laid in the blissfully blank state between sleep and waking, peaceful. However, it wasn't long before a strange rushing sound reached his ears and he was alerted to the fact that there was a world outside of his mind.

Before he could catch himself, Aragorn's eyes shot open. He feared the sight of the dead all about him but mercifully found only empty, dark grey, barren land free of blood and corpses. Nevertheless afraid to move, Aragorn laid in complete silence, waiting for a sign that all was well.

"Are you awake?" Legolas' soft voice came from beside Aragorn and he immediately sat up, suddenly desperate to see the Elf's face. Legolas was sat closer than he had thought. He was now clean of any blood that had splattered him earlier, much to Aragorn's intense relief. "I was starting to get worried."

"Where are we?" Aragorn asked in little more than a whisper.

"By the river." That explained the rushing noise he had woken up to, Aragorn thought. "Don't worry; we're safe here."

The boy nodded, swallowing back the nausea that rose in his throat at the memory of what he had witnessed in the copse of trees. Noting that the child had paled dramatically, Legolas laid his hand on Aragorn's trembling shoulder, encouraging teary grey eyes to meet his.

"It is all right."

Legolas' kindly reassurances made Aragorn's tears finally brim over and spill, tracking down his dirty cheeks. A choked whimper escaped him and much to his immense surprise, Legolas' arms were suddenly around him and he found himself pressed comfortingly against the Elf's chest. Legolas, wearing only a tattered shirt and tunic, despite being as many, many others in the world now was terribly thin but to Aragorn he felt strong and firm and unexpectedly warm. He wrapped his arms as tightly around his guardian as he possibly could and felt the Elf loosen one of his arms to wrap the fallen jacket back around him to keep him warm.

Aragorn's cries were painfully harsh to Legolas' ears but he held him close nonetheless. Really, the prince had absolutely no reference on how to offer consolation to a distressed child, although in that moment he longed to possess what seemed now like invaluable knowledge. Aragorn's small body shuddered constantly under Legolas' hands and he rubbed his back gently in the hope of easing the tremors.

For an immeasurable amount of time, Legolas attempted to play the role of parent, trying to ease the boy's suffering. In truth, he was increasingly anxious to be on the move again. For nearly five hours now they had remained out in the open in a relatively popular spot and the Elf was starting to feel rather too exposed for comfort.

Gently, Legolas pulled the crying Aragorn back away from his body, wiping tears from now flushed cheeks with ghosting fingers. "We have to get moving now, Aragorn. We have tarried here too long."

In response, Aragorn could do nothing more than hiccup wearily, the tears continuing to fall freely.

"Let us get you cleaned up before we leave," Legolas said in a softer voice than before.

He hauled the crying boy to his feet and led him, stumbling slightly, over to the river. Having already assured that the, admittedly murky, water was safe to wash in if not to drink, Legolas guided Aragorn to the edge of the bank and started to peel off the boy's clothes enough to wash away the grime – and also the few flecks of blood that had spattered over him during the battle, which the child mercifully hadn't seemed to have noticed yet.

Aragorn made no attempt to help his guardian in the task, instead standing wretchedly in front of him, wet eyes watching Legolas' face continuously for reassurance.

"Come," Legolas encouraged, manoeuvring the Human child closer to the river. Holding the still crying boy close to himself for his comfort, Legolas used only his free hand to wipe away the dirt from Aragorn's face, hands and neck. His clothes they would have to worry about later, perhaps change them for the clean set contained in Arathorn's old bag – if they could retrieve it that is – as soon as they were somewhere more sheltered and safe. "It's alright," Legolas soothed as he lowered Aragorn's head closer to the slow-running water and washed his hair, noting how the water ran a pink-brown colour through his fingers and he was glad beyond words that the already upset child could not see it, as without a doubt it would only panic and revolt him further.

Once Aragorn was as clean as he could be, Legolas replaced his clothing and pulled his jacket over his arms and did up the remaining buttons for him, as he was certain the child's fumbling fingers could not manage.

After shrugging his own jacket back on and picking up his twin white-handled knives, Legolas knelt down in front of Aragorn so that they were level, hoping to instil confidence as he told the child what was to happen next.

"Aragorn, I have to go back and try to get our bags back and I have to take you with me."

Panic and horror flared in teary grey eyes and Aragorn instinctively grabbed ahold of Legolas' arms, which were reaching towards him, as if to hold the Elf in place. "No," Aragorn demanded in a shaking voice filled with fear. "No, don't make me go. Please," he continued to plead desperately, tears falling faster with the prospect of this new threat upon him. All he knew for certain, the thing that dominated his mind drowning out all other sensible thought, was that he could not go back to that place of death. The mere thought of it made his stomach flip nauseatingly and he visibly paled even further.

Legolas remained firmly set in his plan though. No matter what, they needed those backpacks. They held the tools to help them survive and he knew that without them they would not last long out in the wilds.

"Listen to me; I have to go, Aragorn. And you know that I cannot leave you by yourself," the Elf reasoned in what Aragorn believed to be an absurdly calm voice. A hand came to rest against Aragorn's cheek and it steadied him just a little. "If we leave now we should be able to get out of there before night falls and then we can put this whole thing behind us."

Quieter this time, Aragorn's whole body trembled as he implored, "Please, Legolas, don't make me go back there."

"You will be safe; I give you my word." Somehow in the face of the young boy's achingly pitiful pleading, Legolas managed to remain firm in his conviction and force a small smile of reassurance onto his lips. Truthfully, he had no desire to go back to that small, death-tainted stand of trees or to see the end result of the clash between Orc and crazed Man. In fact, the very thought revolted him almost as much as it did his young companion. But he had to go. So, he would did as he always did when forced to face the horrors of the new, awful world; he'd put the reality of the big picture in which he was made to exist from his mind and concentrate only on the small things to survive. Perhaps, he considered momentarily, that would be a useful skill to teach Aragorn at some point in the future.

"Come now, I need you to be brave for me," he said in the most upbeat voice he could manage.

Resigned to the fact that there really was nothing he could say or do to escape this, Aragorn nodded, keeping a tight hold on Legolas' hand as the tall Elf stood up.

Legolas knew that he had walked roughly an hour to reach the river-side and he remembered vaguely the direction they had come from, so he was fairly confident that he could find his way back to the site of the battle.

Unfortunately for a nervous Aragorn, Legolas' conversational skills had not improved in the wake of the battle so they walked, as was common now for them, in awkward silence, meaning that his mind was allowed to run riot.

The first thing that occurred to him was that the Elf who was walking confidently toward further horror now had faced the monsters that had threatened him without hesitation and seemingly without fear and oddly that realisation scared Aragorn. He didn't want Legolas to die and surely one person – even one of the fabled Elves – could not be so lucky as to come through too many attacks such as they had earlier endured without death coming to claim them. But the Rangers, Aragorn recalled, often went into battle willingly. In fact, more often than not they actively out violence against the Enemy. Yes, his once travelling companions had a lot in common with his new guardian. Both were brave and strong, each in their own way. Both held strong morals; even though Legolas often seemed rather conflicted whenever making these decisions to intervene on behalf of another. And both Rangers and Elf had saved him several times now.

Looking up at the tall being appointed his guardian, Aragorn wondered whether he would ever be strong like Legolas; like his father had been. He didn't feel very strong right then and he was absolutely certain that if confronted with monsters as Legolas had been earlier that day he would have turned and ran as his father had instructed him to do when faced with danger rather than staying and fighting. He didn't think he could ever actually kill something; the very notion turned his stomach. And yet these traits that he was convinced eluded him were things he admired so much in Legolas.

Another thought struck him then: What if Legolas eventually got tired of saving him all the time and left him behind? How could he be expected to fend for himself with no idea of how to survive in a world of monsters? Did that mean, then, that he was bound to one day be the same as Legolas and shed blood as easily as breathing?

Without realising it, Aragorn's hand tightened so much on Legolas' that when he looked up, worried blue eyes were watching him.

"Are you alright?" Legolas asked the startled-looking child.

"Yes," Aragorn mumbled miserably. "I was just thinking…"

When silence fell again on the tail-off of the boy's sentence, Legolas frowned and asked, "You were thinking of what?"

All those thoughts that had seemed so terrifying and urgent moments ago suddenly sounded ridiculous – and more than a little ungrateful - in his mind so he haltingly returned to the safer, distracting topic of Legolas' elusive past. "I…um, I was just wondering about the Elves."

"Oh."

If Aragorn hadn't known better, he'd have said that Legolas looked disappointed. "Yes."

Sighing, Legolas decided that a curious Aragorn was better than a morose Aragorn, so he prompted softly, "What were you wondering?"

The questions that had been filling his mind long before the events of that morning came flooding back, replacing the dark with the curious. "Where did you used to live? Father said that when he was a boy he lived in a beautiful home with multiple rooms and a private tree-house and servants to take care of his needs," Aragorn said enthusiastically, taking the opportunity of exploiting Legolas' good mood.

"Did he now?"

"Uh-huh," Aragorn nodded certainly. "Did you have a tree-house?"

Legolas almost laughed at the astoundingly banal question the child posed. Of course one so young would fixate upon the most unimportant but most fun-sounding thing.

The Elf answered the question honestly. "Yes, I did."

"Was it fun?"

"Fun?"

"Did you play in it a lot?" Aragorn asked with new-found eagerness.

"As a child I suppose I did, yes."

Legolas' eyes momentarily misted over at the memory of his youth spent running freely through the magnificently splendid palace grounds of his Mirkwood home, his father and mother occasionally joining him on his jaunts when their duties permitted their absence. These care-free days seemed so very distant to him now, almost as if they had never existed at all.

"What's wrong?" Aragorn's voice broke through his guardian's reverie.

"Nothing is wrong," the Elf snapped defensively before he could stop himself. Aragorn had merely caught him off guard. The boy seemed to have quite a knack for that.

"Was your house nice?" Aragorn continued before the conversation could dry up again.

"It was nice." An understatement considering he had grown up in one of the most spectacular palaces of all the Elven kingdoms, but telling Aragorn this would only amp up his curiosity even further and he didn't want any more elaborate questions.

"Was it big?"

"Relatively big, yes." The great palace was huge even by royal standards, carved deep into rock and making for an impossibly impressive sight.

"Where was it?"

Bracing himself for the blast of grief he anticipated sweeping through him, Legolas answered, "A place called Mirkwood." The name sounded strange to his ears; it had been so long since he had even thought it.

"'Mirkwood'? That doesn't sound very nice at all," Aragorn blurted out without even thinking and then regretted his knee-jerk reaction. "Sorry," he added sheepishly.

But he needn't have worried for Legolas was actually smiling softly. "I suppose that it was rather dark at times. But it had its charms also: vast forests of green stretching for hundreds and hundreds of leagues over the rolling landscape, beautiful clear rivers and a palace of unsurpassable magnificence." Far from making his chest hurt, as it usually did when he remembered his home, warmth spread through him and his smile turned genuine. "The song of the trees filled the hearts of those who lived within them and my people sang with them. It was truly beautiful, Aragorn."

"I wish I could have seen it."

"As do I."

They walked for a minute in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. Unsurprisingly, it was the younger of the pair who broke the hush. "Do you miss it?"

"Of course." Legolas initially frowned in confusion at the oddness of the enquiry. But then he realised that Aragorn had been born a traveller and had lived a nomadic life with his father. He doubted that Arathorn and his son – and indeed Aragorn's mother before she had passed away not long after her son's birth – had ever actually settled anywhere. There was nowhere to settle out in the wilds now that was not in constant danger of attack by the Enemy and Arathorn had seemed like too sensible a man to expose his beloved family to such unnecessary jeopardy. Not that wandering the lands was without its own risks. But surely, Legolas thought, it was better to be moving than be stationary and even more prone to attacks.

"I miss my father," Aragorn said softly after a while, his head now bowed toward the ground again.

What could Legolas say to that? There was no reassurance he could offer, so he very gently tightened his hold on the boy's hand, hoping to convey that which he could not say in words.

Now, Aragorn became too absorbed in his own thoughts to worry about keeping up the questions posed to his mentor, but, although this suited the Elf well enough it meant that the boy's wandering mind swiftly went back to the events of that morning and the fear returned to him.

Legolas' guess that it was an hour's walk back to the copse was indeed correct. As they neared the site of the battle, the child at his side began to drag his feet.

"Aragorn, come on, we have to find the bags before it gets dark," Legolas told him, his voice startling the frightened boy.

"Please can't we just leave?" Aragorn asked in a pitifully small voice.

The Elf sighed deeply, tired of hearing the same pleading question. Why did the child not comprehend that they had no other choice and that if they did Legolas would happily stay away from the copse of death? So, he simply said, "No," in terse reply.

"Please."

Legolas stopped and looked down at the boy, ready to shout in anger but it swiftly morphed into sympathy when he noticed the tears brimming in legitimately frightened grey eyes. "I am sorry, Aragorn, but we have to. You will be safe, I promise." Tears spilled over and rolled down pale cheeks. Taking pity on the boy, Legolas bent down and easily lifted Aragorn into his arms again. "You must trust me," he whispered kindly, holding Aragorn against him.

"I don't want to go," Aragorn sobbed desperately into Legolas' shoulder.

Running his hand down the small, trembling back, Legolas said, "I know you don't, but we must all the same. Just stay close to me, no matter what transpires; do you understand?" With a reluctant nod from Aragorn, Legolas started walking again, more slowly this time and acutely aware of the knives held in his free hand. He didn't believe for one second that either side – Man or Orc – would still be present at the site of the earlier battle; they would have abandoned the area as quickly as possible rather than linger and risk further danger. Still, he wasn't going to abandon all caution just yet, for Legolas knew that those two races were the most unpredictable on Arda.

The first real sign that they were on the right track was the blood that started to stain the ground – mostly red, Legolas noticed. Perhaps the Orcs had been victorious in their fight with the Wild Men after all. Holding both Aragorn and his knives tighter, Legolas moved onwards with even more caution than before. As he got closer to the grove of trees, the blood got steadily thicker and Legolas thickly swallowed back the revulsion at treading in the slick substance and the anticipation of what he suspected he would soon see.

His vivid imagination was not disappointed as he finally came upon the clearing and stand of trees. The soil was littered with the bodies of the slain and drenched in a sickening mixture of thin Human blood and the much thicker blood of the monsters of Sauron.

Nothing was alive any longer and the Elf found that he was actually immensely grateful for this.

An eerie hush had fallen, although Legolas knew that within days the place would be crawling with scavengers taking advantage of the aftermath of the slaughter.

Legolas most definitely did not want to be around when the animals – and perhaps even Humans – came to strip the carcasses of anything at all useful. So, the Elf slowly skirted around the mass graveyard, his own keen eyes on the ground just in case anything of use could be recovered but the slain Orcs carried only crude and heavy weapons and armour, which Legolas could not afford to be weighed down by, and the Men possessed even less refined weaponry and wore little more than filthy loincloths.

Remembering that he had left their bags on the other side of the road Legolas made his way through the carnage, carefully avoiding the bloody corpses as he went. In his arms, the Elf felt Aragorn trembling even though his face was still buried deeply in Legolas' shoulder.

The Old Forest Road, despite being Legolas' closest friend these past twenty years, had never before seemed so terribly appealing and he found himself eager to get back to what he knew. Legolas edged around the tiny, now blood-tinted, polluted oasis and the grisly copse of trees, noting that the gruesome warnings had now mostly been toppled in the melee, although they had lost none of their power to frighten.

Once the main battlefield and tiny wood had been conquered, only the grisly pile of rotten corpses remained to get past and even Legolas, as he found his eyes drawn to the sickening sight in spite of wanting to look away, found the sight sickeningly repulsive and his head swam slightly now he didn't have the adrenaline of the chase to distract him.

"What's wrong?" Aragorn asked in a cautious whisper when he felt Legolas stiffen at the sight of the pile of rotting bodies, lifting his head from Legolas' shoulder.

Legolas immediately pressed him close again. "Close your eyes," he told the boy firmly. He did not want Aragorn to have to witness this again; he'd already seen more than an innocent child ever should.

Aragorn released a moan of fear and buried even deeper into Legolas' jacket, clenching his eyes tightly shut.

A rough shudder ripped through the Elf as he passed the putrid, reeking mound of decomposing bodies. Although most of them were mutilated beyond any recognition, a couple nearer the edges could be positively identified as Men, milky eyes staring blindly up at the Elf, mouths open and imploring wordlessly for help that was already beyond them. Legolas did not feel any pity for the perished souls; they were past all sympathy now anyway, and he found that he had none to spare for them.

Once the Elf had passed the pile of decaying carcasses he hurried away, having no intention of ever returning to this place of death. It wasn't difficult to find the road again after that and Legolas ran haltingly over to the other side of the path where he had left their bags when he's gone in search of his young charge. The fear that someone may have come by and stolen all their worldly possessions proved unfounded as the tatty backpacks remained untouched, just as he had left them when he had run off to rescue Aragorn that morning.

"Alright, we're on the road now; you can get down."

Despite this assurance, Legolas still had to quite literally prise the young boy off of him. Even as Aragorn was put on his own two feet, he felt tight onto the Elf's leg, his eyes squeezed closed just in case Legolas was mistaken in his assurance that everything was safe now. Ignoring Aragorn for the time being, Legolas picked up each of the bags, briefly checking them to see that nothing had been misplaced when he'd dropped them in his panic earlier. Then he replaced his two white knives in the bag and instead took out a much more convenient dagger, one that had once belonged to Arathorn. The knife that he had earlier given to Aragorn for protection had clearly been lost in the battle but a brief flick of his eyes over to the now partially trampled bushes leading to the copse of trees reinforced his decision that it really didn't matter. No way was he returning to that place of horrors for a single small weapon.

"You can open your eyes now, Aragorn," Legolas told the child as he stood up straight again.

Grey eyes blinked open and went to wander around the road but then focused on the Elf instead, not wanting to witness any further living nightmares.

"Can we go now?" he asked Legolas in a small, pleading whisper.

"Yes." Although there was no sound yet of approaching creatures, Legolas did not want to hang about and take the chance of being set upon by more enemies, nor did he wish to remain in the vicinity of so much violent death. Reaching down, Legolas' hands calmly prised Aragorn off his leg and took his hand instead so he could walk unimpeded.

They walked quickly and did not pause as night fell, although Aragorn seemed to scare even easier in the darkness.

For two full days they continued without stopping for longer than an hour at a time to gather their breath. Aragorn still tired easily, so as they approached their third night on the road, Legolas made the decision that it was time they stopped and suggested to Aragorn that they find somewhere sheltered to rest so they could sleep for the night.

By the time they found somewhere that the cautious Elf deemed safe enough, Aragorn was utterly exhausted and plopped himself down on the ground the very moment they stopped and within minutes had fallen into a deep sleep. Legolas also eased himself down to the ground with a heavy exhale of relief. It felt good to be away from the heavy, oppressive atmosphere of death that for the first couple of days had chased them, clung to them with startling vividness and intensity.

Legolas was certain that it was more than simply Aragorn's reaction to death that had so thoroughly unsettled him - although the sights he had been made to look at in his determination to protect the boy would haunt him for a long time yet.

Tiredness soon set in and he lay down to drift into reverie, still remaining partially aware of the environment around him. This kind of sleep was by no means ideal, for even the Elves required some true rest, but he had become used to it over his years of wandering and at least it was convenient and safe and offered him some reprieve from the world of waking. It did mean, on the down-side, that the visions in his dreams were even more vivid, bringing the gruesome images he had been witness to into sharp relief.

**OIOI**

Aragorn woke slowly, a chill seeping through his body and making him shiver violently. He was covered in a thin blanket, which he hugged tightly around himself. The day was grey, nothing unusual. Overcast was different from oppressive though and that was what Aragorn primarily felt as his eyes shifted around. The very air felt thick, heavy; as though the grey of the sky was physically pressing down on him. He opened his mouth to better draw breath in the thick air, as currently it was bordering on being suffocating.

Despite his initial chill, Aragorn now felt awful, stifling heat in the still air and he shrugged the blanket off himself – though in its state of disrepair there was no way it could retain any meaningful heat – and sat up quickly, almost expecting to see the road around him engulfed in fire, which at least would explain the heat and air quality.

The only light around him though was the grey, dull light of dawn – no fire. Yet the heat still swirled around him and he felt hot sweat trickling down his back beneath his clothes.

Growing more concerned by the second, Aragorn looked around for his protector. Legolas was nowhere to be seen and, given his recent encounter with the Wild Men and filthy monsters, that was deeply unsettling. Suddenly, he felt very alone and another shiver shook him, this one of fear.

"Legolas?" he called out feebly, disappointed by the crack that fractured his small voice.

Deathly silence pounded in Aragorn's ears as he waited anxiously for a reply. Dread was starting to capture him again, quickening his heart rate until it pounded so hard that he imagined it could very easily have leapt right out of his chest.

Climbing up to his knees, the increasingly unsettled boy searched the area again for his Elven guardian. Had Legolas left him alone for good or had he simply stepped away for a brief time, as he had been known to do on occasion during their time together, as Aragorn slept? He couldn't imagine that Legolas, who had taken an oath to protect him, would simply leave him on the roadside. But then, how well did he really know the Elf? He could not be sure that Legolas would not abandon him with absolutely no warning.

Dread gave way to panic. In the stark dawn, Aragorn believed it entirely possible that he was all alone in the world.

Sitting frozen in the nearly smothering heat would get him nowhere though, so, his body stiff, he climbed to his feet, feeling a little woozy.

"Legolas?" he called again, his feet carrying him away from their sparse campsite. As an age-old attempt at self-comfort, he wrapped his arms around himself as he walked.

After just a few seconds of steady walking, Aragorn's eyes were met with a strange flash of white light and he automatically looked to the thickly clouded sky for the source – lightening was not uncommon, although he saw no sign of a storm brewing in the oddly still skies. When his gaze returned level, he found himself looking toward a vast, fast-flowing river. Aragorn startled at the sight. How on earth had he missed that before?

"Legolas?" he shouted, pleased that his voice had recovered some strength.

A cracking twig from behind him made him swivel around but there was nothing there.

This time, Aragorn's voice came out even weaker than before. "Legolas?"

"Over here," a clear voice rang out from the riverside and Aragorn turned sharply to find the Elf crouched on the riverbank.

As Aragorn moved slowly towards him, Legolas smiled thinly. "Where were you?" the boy asked his guardian as he got closer.

"I've been here all along," Legolas told him, Aragorn thought, almost patronisingly. Something was wrong with all this. The Elf looked as he always had done and yet something felt out of place. For sure, his tone was foreign to Aragorn. Never before had he looked and sounded quite so…upbeat.

"I didn't know this was here." Aragorn moved his gaze over to the wide, black river. In response, Legolas simply chuckled, shaking his head in amused exasperation at his charge. The increasingly confused child shifted his gaze to Legolas once more to find that the Elf's gloved hands were plunged into the fast-flowing river water up to his wrists. "What are you doing?" Aragorn asked curiously, leaning closer to the Elf.

Legolas didn't answer the question but craned his neck to smile benignly up at his young companion.

Confused and disconcerted by this sudden inexplicable change in Legolas, Aragorn took a step backwards, not quite sure if it was advisable to remain so close to the Elf in this odd state. Yes, Legolas had always been frustratingly enigmatic and a little coarse at times but Aragorn had never been truly scared of him as he was now. There was something strange glinting in his blue eyes that Aragorn was afraid to identify.

When Aragorn took another slow step away, Legolas' smile morphed into a deep frown and he asked, "Where are you going?"

The words stuck in Aragorn's throat and he found himself unable to swallow the lump of fear that had risen from the pit of his fluttering stomach.

Smiling once more, Legolas said eagerly, "You really should watch this."

"Watch what?"

"It is quite astonishing, Aragorn. I think you will like it."

There was a note of foreboding in the Elf's voice despite its resounding cheerfulness that made Aragorn again shudder through the muggy heat that still surrounded him. "Can we go? I don't like it here," he said in a trembling voice, his eyes darting around.

Legolas' shoulders fell, a gesture of disbelief. "Do you not want to see it?"

"_See what?_"

"You just have to demonstrate some patience, child."

Aragorn again looked to Legolas' submerged hands and asked, "Why are you doing that?"

He got little more of an answer than the first time he'd asked the question. "I'm just waiting."

The boy could have sat down and cried in frustration. He wanted nothing more than to escape this odd place now. "Legolas…"

"Ah, here we go. Watch." Suddenly, the Elf perked up and he immersed his hands fully into the water until his arms were also submerged all the way up to his elbows.

Intrigued – albeit nearly overwhelmed by fright – Aragorn shifted nearer to the river, following the Elf's eager gaze to the centre of the water. It was impossible to see anything beneath the surface of the deep, dark body of water. Yet Legolas seemed enraptured by the murky depths. He stared unblinkingly ahead, leaning so far forward that Aragorn feared he would tumble into the fast-flowing river.

Despite his almost irresistible yearning to turn and run as the anticipation at what was coming increased to almost unbearable levels, Aragorn found himself glued to the spot – feeling just as he had felt in the copse of trees surrounded by the gruesome dead. Another shiver wracked his thin frame and he heard himself make a sound but he could not quite identify what he was.

With his vision unwaveringly glued on the eerie river it was impossible to miss the event Legolas had been so patiently waiting for.

First it was a solitary floating shape on the far side of the great river; so far away that it was barely visible to the human eye. Then they came all at once. The river was suddenly flooded with the seemingly squishy, white flotsam from downstream. It was impossible to define what the objects were to begin with and when Aragorn did get a close up look, as one of the white bulks banged into Legolas' submerged arms, he wished he hadn't.

What must have been literally hundreds of bodies flowed rapidly past them, crashing into one another and into the banks on either side - a sickening wave of bare corpses, all unidentifiable. The sheer volume of bloated bodies would have been shocking enough to the terrified boy but it was the look of satisfaction and joy on the Elf's face that sent horror running through his heart and mind. Legolas looked positively excited as the bodies swept past him. A laugh of delight left the Elf's pale lips.

Then the Elf raised his hands from the water and they emerged slick and glistening with blood. For a moment, Legolas stared at his hands then he laughed, this time nearly hysterically. Bringing his dark red-coated hands up before him, he ran his fingers down his face, leaving behind red streaks over his pale features.

Blue eyes moved to the boy and Legolas asked almost shyly, "How do I look?" He then flashed a genuine smile to Aragorn, his teeth glistening bright white in contrast to the now dark red of his face.

Struck dumb from shock, Aragorn suddenly was released from his frozen state of fear and he screamed at the top of his lungs. Legolas looked honestly startled but did not rise to his feet as the child stumbled backwards in pure horror.

"Where are you going?" the Elf asked, his face an odd combination of annoyance and confusion. When Aragorn continued to back away from the bloodied Elf, horror set on his pale, sickened features, Legolas slowly and gracefully got up and headed after the boy as he tried to run. Aragorn turned to better escape the macabre river but he had only sprinted two awkward steps when strong, stiff arms caught him and dragged him back. "What is your problem?" Legolas demanded in a harsh tone, holding the squirming child close to his chest.

"Let me go," Aragorn wailed pleadingly, struggling in vain to get free.

Legolas' grip was solid though, almost as though the Elf was made of marble, strong and unbreakable. He stood firm and unconcerned by the feeble attempts by the human child to get loose.

"You must understand," the Elf started in a cool voice as he untangled one of his arms in order to transfer some of the thick blood that remained on his fingers to Aragorn's flushed cheeks, "this is for your own good." The stone-like hand then moved to grip the child's small neck and held tight.

Crying would do no good now – nor would struggling, Aragorn realised. The world changed from grey to a light red, which grew deeper until Aragorn felt he was drowning, as if the river had burst its banks and was now drowning him in the blood of the slain. A scream rose in his throat but there wasn't enough air left in his lungs to make any sound.

Soon, the red became darker and he felt the world fading to black.

**To Be Continued…**


	7. Rifts

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOI**

**Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed. It really inspires me to continue writing when I receive them.**

**OIOI**

**Chapter 7**

**Rifts**

Aragorn woke to a scream that refused to materialise as he gasped in frantic desperation for air to force into his aching lungs.

"Aragorn?" Legolas' voice came from his side and he flinched at the sound, soft as it was.

Finally able to breathe again, the scream that had threatened to bubble from his throat dissipated before even a whimper escaped and he swallowed the bitter taste his fear left in his mouth.

The world was grey again, not red as he had feared. Only a bright orange glow from behind him broke up the miserable first light of dawn. One thing that had transferred from dream into reality though was the intense heat. Sweat trickled down his temples and back, although thankfully he didn't feel that crushing pressure in the air.

A gentle hand was placed against Aragorn's trembling back and a sudden, vivid vision of blood-coated, marble hands throttling him shot through his mind and he cried out, shrugging out of the blanket he found himself cocooned in and climbing to his feet so he could see the Elf. No blood was painted on Legolas' pale face nor coated his arms and blue eyes gleamed with worry rather than lunacy.

"What is it?" Legolas asked in a voice so soft that Aragorn could only just hear it; he was afraid of scaring the already timid boy.

It took Aragorn a couple of goes but eventually he managed to shakily say, "Just a nightmare."

Legolas reached behind him to retrieve a flask, offering, "Water," to Aragorn.

Taking the canteen with a shaking hand, Aragorn gratefully sipped at the stale liquid then returned the flask to Legolas.

"Is it day?" the boy asked, his eyes moving toward the grey skies.

"Dawn," Legolas informed him. "Are…are you unwell?"

"What?"

"I understand that Human children can be prone to sickness. You look very pale and you are trembling," the Elf stated.

Aragorn shook his head. "I am not ill."

"You're sure? Because I do not know much about the art of healing and even if I did…"

"I'm not sick, I promise."

"Good. Please try your best not to become so. I swore to your father that I'd protect you."

Frowning at the odd way this conversation was progressing, Aragorn simply uttered a quiet, "Alright," and looked away from the Elf's intense gaze. Still unsettled by his nightmare, he shuddered despite the heat pounding his body, the source of which he now realised was the fire beside him.

"What did you dream of?" Legolas uncertainly broke the silence; a surprise because usually he was the one who relished the quiet moments between them.

Not meeting the Elf's steady gaze, clearly so desperate to understand the puzzle of a boy he had been landed with, Aragorn instead asked a question of the Elf rather than answering his own question, "Did you build the fire?"

"I did," Legolas replied, easily picking up on the deflection of his own question.

"Why?"

Aragorn's confusion was natural. He had travelled with Legolas now for many days – how many exactly he couldn't be sure, it was so difficult to keep track – and never before, no matter how low the temperature dropped nor the circumstances, had Legolas consented to them building a fire to keep themselves warm. Even the sparse amount of meat they sometimes obtained was cooked carefully with a controlled fire that never provided any meaningful heat or light for the two travellers. Therefore, he could not fathom what had possessed Legolas to break tradition and light a substantial fire merely days after multiple Orc attacks not far from the road.

Legolas, however, shrugged dismissively and explained, "You shivered in your sleep. I feared you were cold." He frowned then and continued, "Although now it appears that you have grown too hot." Eyes, sparkling ever so slightly in the flickering of orange light, roamed over Aragorn's sweat-drenched body and the boy squirmed uncomfortably under the scrutiny. "I can extinguish it if you'd prefer."

"No!" Aragorn cried quickly. The thought of having no light or warmth made him shudder again.

"Very well."

Their regular uncomfortable silence once again fell, although now when Aragorn looked over to the Elf, blue eyes were searching around almost frantically for something to speak of. What, Aragorn wondered, had prompted such a transformation? He wasn't sure he liked this new, slightly awkward Legolas. His father had always known what to do and say and that was the one thing he had liked about being with the Elf: his ability to reassure, to be calm. Indecisive Legolas, uncertain Legolas, he did not like so much.

"Will we be leaving soon?" Aragorn said, to the great relief of Legolas.

"I thought you might like to sleep some more."

Aragorn nodded in silence, his gaze moving to the fire. Sleep was not welcome when it came adorned with nightmares.

"It…it is alright to be scared, you know," Legolas finally said in a whisper, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder. "It was a horrible thing for me to witness too."

Tears welled up, unwelcome, in Aragorn's eyes but he didn't look toward the Elf as he spoke. "Do you think they're all dead?"

"The Orcs?" Legolas asked but he already knew what the boy meant. "Yes, I suspect they killed each other off."

"Oh."

"You should not feel pity for them, Aragorn; they would show none to you."

There was a cold undertone to the Elf's normally distant voice that made Aragorn shudder with fear. Legolas seemed almost glad of their deaths and although Aragorn was pleased they could no longer cause hurt to anyone, he did not take pleasure in the slaying of any creature.

"What about…those Men? Why would they attack the monsters?"

"Orcs," Legolas corrected in impatience. "They were merely defending their territory."

"What does that mean?"

"That stand of trees was their home and their hunting ground. The spikes bearing the heads of their victims were there to warn trespassers not to linger."

In this world of evil and brutality, Legolas did not believe that concealing the truth from the naïve child would benefit him in the future so he decided it only right that he not spare the details, no matter how unpleasant they were. Frankly, he thought it highly irresponsible that Arathorn had not taught the boy anything of the world into which he had been born and was now forced to live in.

"Why are they like that?" Aragorn choked out even though he wasn't certain he really wanted to know why.

"They have been driven mad, forced to wander across barren lands. After generations of deprivation they have learned to survive the only way they can – by consuming their own kind. They live on whatever they can find; be it animal…or Human." Aragorn swallowed thickly, certain now that he shouldn't have asked. "They cannibalise their own kind without guilt or revulsion. That is what makes them so very dangerous; they are prepared to sink to the very lowest levels of their instincts simply to survive."

"So, those…warnings…and the other…"

"The remains of their hunting."

Aragorn blanched further as his mind processed this. "Are they the only ones?"

"No. There are others scattered around. Once you know the warnings to look for it is easy enough to avoid them."

"Can you teach me?"

Legolas was surprised by the request but he said, "I suppose so." The child nodded.

"Could you teach me to fight like you as well?"

"I…I'm not sure that you should be…"

"Please," Aragorn implored, climbing to his knees again and shuffling closer to the Elf. "Don't you think I should learn to defend myself?"

"Just moments ago the very thought of death scared you and yet now you desire to know how to inflict it?"

"No. But given the choice…If I were to meet people like those again, I would rather…I want to be able to defend myself and you."

Silence fell again as Legolas considered the request. Elven children were taught the art of fighting as soon as possible so why should the Human child be any different, especially given the circumstances? "I suppose it wouldn't do any harm to start teaching you the basics," he agreed at last.

"Thank you." A strange relief swept over Aragorn with this promise. Activity felt better than not and he knew he would feel safer with the knowledge that he had some form of defence, however weak it may turn out to be, against the horrors he'd been forced to witness recently. Right now he couldn't imagine himself taking the life of another but who knew what the future would bring?

The silence, which Aragorn had disliked so much not long ago, was now welcomed. Legolas was watching the flames of his fire rather than his young ward and Aragorn was once again struck by the quiet strength that radiated from the Elf. He had thought that he would be disquieted by what he had seen the Elf do to the monsters and yet instead he felt comforted by what he now knew Legolas was capable of. His protector would kill for him. Just as the Rangers had always promised his father they would do if the need ever arose when they believed he was not listening at night.

Slowly, Aragorn shifted closer to the Elf until he was curled up against Legolas' side with one of his protector's arms wrapped securely around him, holding him near. In this position, as the day grew marginally lighter as dawn-break moved into full morning, he felt safe and warm and soon he drifted off into a pleasant sleep, free of nightmares in spite of the Elf's blunt, unflinching explanation of what he one day might have to face.

**OIOI**

"No!" Legolas shouted in impatience, rolling his eyes. "You never switch fighting hands."

"Sorry," Aragorn mumbled, returning the stick he was using as a mock weapon to his dominant right hand.

"You have not developed as much strength in your left hand as your dominant one. How many times must I tell you?"

Annoyed by the biting tone of his now-tutor's voice, Aragorn sighed. "I said I was sorry."

"'Sorry' is not good enough, it seems. You were the one who wanted to learn these skills so try to pay attention to the lessons I teach."

Sulkily, Aragorn nodded, digging the blunted end of the stick he was holding into the ground as he said, "_You_ use both hands."

This was not the response Legolas had been looking for. "Have you been fighting for two millennia?"

"No," Aragorn conceded, lowering his gaze.

"Then do as I say. Pick up your weapon," the Elf instructed, raising his own blunted stick, poised to fight again.

Aragorn did not obey though but rather sighed, his eyes shifting to where they had laid their bags in preparation for a nights' sleep. "I'm tired. Can't we do this later?"

"No, we'll lose the light soon."

"What difference does that make? Maybe one day I'll have to fight in the dark." It was fair to say that the idea of learning to fight in the way that Legolas did had long since lost its appeal for Aragorn, and after endless days of repeating the same, excruciatingly dull movements and stances, he felt entirely justified in his frustration. With no food for days and very little water or sleep, he was starting to feel weary, thus his patience was growing thin.

"Aragorn," Legolas sighed, his own patience nearing an end.

"Can't we do more in the morning? I'm tired."

"You need to learn how to defend yourself. I know this part is dull but you'll need to know it for later." Aragorn lowered his eyes from Legolas', embarrassed that he had disappointed his guardian already. "Just go through it once more and then we can rest."

"Alright." Aragorn supposed he had brought this upon himself. He had asked to be taught and he should have known what kind of teacher Legolas would be. The moves he had been shown so far were so accurate, precise and fluid that his small, fumbling body found them nearly impossible to replicate to Legolas' satisfaction.

Carefully, he took the stance Legolas had taught him again, standing at a slight angle to his opponent, his legs spread, feet planted firmly on the ground.

Their mock swords never touched but Legolas taught him the strong motion of parrying a blow – he was starting with defence, they could move onto attack later if needed. Legolas was surprised to find that he did not relish the thought of this child being forced to slay and yet his rational mind realised that it was unlikely during his life that Aragorn would be able to avoid it.

**OIOI**

A shrill cry echoed around but Legolas stood his ground, unwilling to back down. The heat pounded down from a seemingly sunless sky and he felt a trail of sweat slide between his shoulder blades, already strained from holding his awkward stance for so long.

Normally, he would not bother but, after weeks of having nothing to eat but the odd handful of drying out berries, he was starving. He needed to eat. And, after all, he had promised the boy.

'Boy' he considered idly as he squinted towards the grey sky, waiting for the perfect moment, was by now a rather inappropriate term and one that Aragorn utterly despised. And yet, to Legolas, ancient as he was, Aragorn was exactly that; little more than a child. A child, however, who still relied on him for food and protection. Hence his standing on a bleak, waterless road staring at the sky with practiced, albeit strained, patience.

Taking a steadying breath, Legolas shifted his fingers on the rough wood of his bow. He used to be so confident with this kind of hunting but now he feared he was out of practice. That sure accuracy, which he had once been so famed for in his now lost kingdom, seemed so very distant now. Perhaps that was why he was hesitating when he should have just been taking the chance. It wasn't like he had anything to lose. Or at least he hadn't before he'd spent nearly half the day waiting for the perfect opportunity. Wasted time it might have been and yet he felt that if he was patient for just a little while longer then all this time and effort would pay off.

Legolas' eyes followed the soaring target, resisting the urge to lower his bow and ease the aching in his entire upper body.

The bird rose higher into the air and a sudden panic shot through him that he had lingered for too long. He did not move though in the hope that the bird would descend again. 'Patience', Legolas silently repeated his soothing mantra. It would all be worth it in the end.

Another few minutes passed in uncomfortable inactivity but at last a relieved light lit up the Elf's upward-gazing eyes as his prey came lower. He pulled the string of his bow back further and secured his fingers even better to the arrow poised against it. Then, finally, he released the taut string, sending the roughly-made shaft soaring through the air.

Considering his relative lack of practice, Legolas was a little surprised when the speeding dart actually thudded into the bird. He watched with a mixture of relief and frustration for although he would eat tonight there was a way to walk before he retrieved the fallen creature and he would have to do it quickly before the predators and scavengers started circling.

Breaking into a run, it proved easy enough to locate the fallen bird. His feet pounded on the dry ground, sending plumes of dust bursting into the air with each hurried step.

Only a little searching was required. Legolas lifted the bird from where it had fallen in a ditch a few feet from the road, shaking it to rid the dull feathers of the dust. Very little blood dripped from the creature due to the arrow still impaled through its neck so Legolas left it where it was. He didn't want to leave behind a trail of blood leading all the way back to their humble campsite for predators to follow.

Satisfied with the catch, Legolas made his way back to the road.

Aragorn was waiting for him back at their campsite, lighting a fire for the food Legolas had promised to return with. Legolas couldn't help but smile smugly to himself. The boy had been so convinced that he couldn't do it; which had only made Legolas even more determined not to return empty-handed.

It was truly amazing to Legolas how rapidly Aragorn had grown. Just nine years old when they had first met on that blood-thirsty night, Legolas had never imagined that six years on they would still be travelling together. That was not the only surprise though. Aragorn had changed so dramatically in those six years it was difficult to keep up. Legolas' own youth had lasted for centuries so nothing happened quickly to him, but one day – and Legolas could not accurately place when exactly – Aragorn had simply changed, seemed so very different to him.

Quite apart from the physical changes, the boy's behaviour had altered entirely almost overnight. The light-hearted child had turned into a rather sulky, dissatisfied teenager.

Legolas might not have liked – or even understood – the boy's youthful worship of his Elven saviour turned mentor but he had to confess that he liked it a great deal more than the moody, disinterestedness of his manner towards him now.

No longer did Aragorn cling tightly onto him for security. Instead, he increasingly longed to roam on his own, much to Legolas' deep concern, as although by now Aragorn had seen enough of death to be very nearly immune to it as the Elf himself was, he did not yet know of every danger that existed out there in the world beyond the shelter of Legolas' protection – this was partly Legolas' doing because he had never bothered to educate the boy in the many diverse evils of the world. Ways of survival were far easier to teach than the subtleties of good and evil. Certainly, Aragorn now knew the places and things to best avoid but he still knew little of the nuances of the world in which he resided.

The other thing that Legolas had undoubtedly failed in was his promise to Aragorn's father. On his deathbed, Arathorn had asked that one day, when Aragorn was considered old enough to understand, Legolas explain to him his true destiny, what his life would one day turn out to be. And yet for six years, Legolas had stubbornly put it off; assuring himself every day that the boy, for a boy he remained in the eyes and heart of the immortal Elf, was still too young to comprehend the knowledge Legolas had to pass on, even when sense contradicted his belief, telling him that Aragorn was already well old enough to bear the burden of his future.

Legolas could have cursed Arathorn for his thoughtlessness and his cowardice. The Man should have been honest with his son from the start. Had he had the courage then Legolas would not now be in this predicament.

As Legolas trudged through the intense heat back to where his ward waited, he idly pondered, as he had done many times before, on what Aragorn's reaction might be to the truth about his destiny. Anger, certainly. Followed by fear and then – hopefully – acceptance. That would be a rational person's response.

But Legolas' teenage charge was not rational at the moment. In fact, he was quite the opposite.

Perhaps that was the reason behind Legolas' dallying on the subject. He was afraid for the child because surely once the truth became known, when he repeated Arathorn's words to his ward, the boy would no longer be a child. He would be forced to become a responsible adult and although Legolas disliked the sulky boy he was now burdened with, he did not wish for him to lose his future to duty.

That annoyingly naïve child that had been forced upon him by the dying Human was becoming, it seemed, further away from him rather than closer over time and he had to confess that despite himself, Legolas grieved his loss and longed for his return.

"What took you so long?" an annoyed voice broke through the haze of the Elf's thoughts.

Sighing in irritation, Legolas held out his kill triumphantly to the boy.

Far from being impressed, Aragorn wrinkled his nose and asked distastefully, "Is that it?"

Dropping his hand, understandably stung by the thoughtless jibe, Legolas moved over to where Aragorn had a fire smouldering. "Prepare this."

"Why me?" Aragorn demanded, eyeing the limp bird with distaste.

"Because it will serve as good practice for you," the Elf snapped grouchily, throwing their meal at Aragorn, who was forced to catch it.

As the Elf went to sit on the parched ground, Aragorn glared at him in displeasure. Legolas knew fully well that the boy despised having to prepare their food. He had never taken well to such chores, all the more reason for Legolas to force them upon him.

"Did you practice your drill in my absence?" Legolas broke through the churlish silence as he removed his shoes to rid them of stones.

"No." Aragorn winced as he pulled the crudely made shaft from the bird's neck, laying it delicately to one side, it was not snapped therefore would not be wasted but used again.

Legolas looked up and pressed, "Why not?"

"It's hot!"

"That is not a suitable excuse, Aragorn."

"It is in my mind," Aragorn mumbled under his breath even though he knew that Legolas could hear the comment perfectly well.

"Battle does not only occur in temperate weather. You never know; one day you might have to fight in the heat."

"I never get to fight at all," Aragorn stressed, plucking feathers from their meal.

"Aragorn…" Legolas sighed. He knew exactly where this was heading and he had been there a hundred times before.

"You don't let me do anything."

"That's not true. You're doing something this very minute."

"Yes, because plucking feathers is highly dangerous," Aragorn retorted sarcastically.

"And you should be grateful that you have no need to be toying with danger."

Aragorn sighed heavily, bitterly returning his wavering attention to his bird preparation, very much aware of his companion's gaze boring into him, eyes burning with concern.

This was by no means the first time that Aragorn had protested recently over his lack of involvement. And maybe Legolas was being too protective, sheltering him in the same way he despised Arathorn for doing all his young life. Yet he hated the thought of Aragorn becoming like him – a listless warrior devoid of feeling.

He wanted the boy to remain pure, in the vain hope that it might help him remain that way when one day he would have to face his evil-drenched destiny. For now, that was the only thing Legolas was willing to sacrifice when it came to Aragorn. There was time yet to worry about all the other things he was bound to teach him.

"Legolas?"

"Yes?" Legolas startled from his thoughts, realising that for the second time that day he had fallen into his own thoughts. Surely this was a bad thing though so he pledged himself not to fall into the trap again.

"Do you think you could teach me to shoot?" Before the Elf had a chance to protest, Aragorn rationalised, "Then I could help you do the hunting and you wouldn't have to leave me alone for so long. You could keep your eye on me that way."

The Elf sighed heavily again. "Maybe," came his less than enthusiastic reply.

Fed up with the vague and negative replied to his – frankly very reasonably – requests, Aragorn lost his calm, as he had been prone to do of late, and slammed the nearly naked bird to the ground, yelling, "It's not fair! I never get to do anything I want to do!"

"Aragorn, please…"

"No!" Tears brimmed in tumultuous grey eyes as Aragorn continued, the words spilling unchecked and unheeding of his guardian's reaction to them. "Why can't I be taught the things you know? That is what you're supposed to be doing –_ teaching_ me. But I don't need to learn any further ways to collect water or light a fire – I _know_ all of that now. I need to learn how to fight, how to defend myself and not just by lunging at thin air. I want to learn to fight like you can."

"Why?" Legolas interrupted. "Why do you think you need to learn battle skills, Aragorn?"

"_Because! _So that I can protect myself."

"There is an easy way to do that: when you see danger, _run_."

Aragorn scoffed, his eyes roving around for he feared that if his gaze settled on Legolas then he would crumble in his resolve to remain angry. Legolas did have the uncanny ability of making him feel guilty for just about everything he said or did.

"You don't think that's a little cowardly?" the teen ground out.

"Preservation is not an act of cowardice," the Elf stated without thought. "It is simply common sense."

That lesson was the one that he had consistently drilled into the boy from the very first day he had asked to be taught self-defence. But it seemed that it was no longer satisfactory in Aragorn's eyes.

"Then what about the day you met me? What was that?" the human challenged Legolas' reckless attack on the Orcs that held him and his father.

"_That_ was stupidity." He spoke without thinking, not considering that his ward's feeling might be hurt by the words.

Aragorn should have anticipated the answer. Legolas was, and had been ever since they'd been thrown together by tragic circumstance, blunt to a fault, which had understandably caused tension between them in the past. Despite his prior knowledge of the Elf's candour, the words still stung Aragorn to hear.

"So saving me was stupid? Is that what you're saying?"

"You know fully well it's not," Legolas sighed.

"Well, that's what you just said!"

"That is not…The day I met you was…different."

"How?"

Lost for a suitable reply, Legolas settled on his fall-back answer instead, "You are too young to fight."

"I may have been too young six years ago but not anymore. I am fifteen now, Legolas. If not now, then when? Will you start teaching me on my deathbed? Or maybe in the midst of an Orc attack?"

"That won't happen."

"How do you know?"

"Because I won't let it," the Elf stated with confidence.

"What if one day you're not around to protect me anymore?"

"I will always be here, Aragorn. Where else would I go?"

Rolling his eyes with a self-satisfied look, Aragorn said, "Well, we're never going anywhere, that's for sure."

Reigning in his temper at the dig, Legolas ground out, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It's not like you're ever going to leave this boring old strip of road, is it?" Legolas' glare did little to put Aragorn off and he continued with his cruelly stinging barbs. "For six tedious years we have walked up and down, from end to end. Just walking, nothing else. You won't even stop for more than a night at a time. You don't think that's cowardly? It's pathetic! _You're_ pathetic! I don't think you could have ever been anything but a coward. A real warrior would not be so utterly unwilling to wander from the comfort of his home or to engage the Enemy." Getting to his feet as though to further emphasise the sheer venom of his words, Aragorn went on. "Were you ever anything but the weak-willed, fearful mess you are right now? Too scared to stand up for yourself – is that it? You wouldn't even meet me in a fight!"

"I saved your life," Legolas said through gritted teeth, slowly gaining his feet, visibly shaking with anger. "And – need I remind you? – the life of your father."

Snorting in sarcastic laughter, Aragorn took a step closer, seemingly undeterred by the fact that Legolas stood over a foot taller than him. "My father was ten times the man you will ever be!"

"Enough!" Legolas yelled, his fragile temper finally shattering at the unkind accusations. In the same instant, a crack resounded in the hot afternoon air and the Elf felt the slight stinging sensation across the flat of his hand a fraction of a second before his mind caught up with what had just occurred.

The red veil of anger cleared from his vision and Legolas stumbled backwards, away from the dumbfounded boy, who had his left hand pressed against the biting pain on his right cheek where the Elf, his guardian and defender, had just struck him.

"Aragorn…" Legolas' voice cracked horribly as he took an imploring step towards his shocked ward.

"Stay away from me," Aragorn gasped, extending his hand to keep some distance between the two of them.

"Aragorn, please, I am so sorry."

"Don't come near me!" Tears spilled over but they were of anger rather than sadness. Pulling himself together, Aragorn said in an admirably steady voice, "You really are a coward."

With anger still pulsing relentlessly through him, Aragorn turned sharply away from Legolas, snatched up his pack from the ground, and went to stride away.

A hand shot out to grab him but was the retracted just as quickly as if burnt by the touch. "Where are you going?" Legolas called in despair.

"Away from you."

"Aragorn, you can't leave."

"Why not? Clearly you don't care enough about me to want me here."

"You know fully well that's not true."

"No? Then why do you still treat me like an incompetent child?" Aragorn yelled, resuming storming away even though he knew in his heart that Legolas would follow him no matter what he said. He wanted to give into his impulses for a while though.

"Because you _are _still a child, Aragorn."

"I'm not!" Aragorn yelled in anger, balling his fists.

"You are to me."

This did nothing to cool Aragorn's anger as Legolas had hoped. In fact, the boy seemed to perceive it more as an insult. "I am not!"

"Aragorn please stop."

"No! Why should I stay with you? I'm tired of just going backwards and forwards, travelling the same dull stretch of road all the time. Maybe it's enough for you, but it's not for me. I'm better than that." Aragorn nearly tripped on the uneven ground in his haste to escape his guardian. "If you want to remain going in the same pattern until you die then go ahead, but you can do it alone."

"Aragorn…"

"When I was little, you told me that one day we would have to go out into the world, but I realise now that you're simply too scared."

"Please would you stop?"

"Can we go somewhere else then?" Aragorn demanded, stopping suddenly and whirling to face Legolas.

The question stumped the Elf. He wanted to be honest as well as keep his charge at his side. With a deep sigh of dejection, Legolas told the truth. "I can't promise you that. Try to understand, Aragorn, I…"

"I knew it! You just want to walk up and down the road forever! Am I destined to die here too? Maybe I'll never leave. But I have to go, Legolas, because I am more than this. I want more."

"Tell me, then, what you want."

"I want to do _something_!"

"What? You want to kill, is that it? You want to take a life, watch someone's soul ebb from their body as they choke on their own blood? Is that really what you want? Because it is not glamorous, Aragorn. Every time you kill something you have to recognise that loss."

"The world doesn't mourn the loss of monsters. That is a noble cause to be associated with. The Rangers…"

"I am not a Ranger, Aragorn."

"I know that!" Aragorn yelled. "I wish I was still with them. I hate it here. And I hate you."

"You know that I am doing my best here and I don't think even you could hate me for that." Legolas' voice was painfully soft as Aragorn's biting words sunk into his heart.

"How do you know? You don't know anything about me."

Without thinking, Legolas shot back, "I know more than you might think."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Legolas hesitated, torn between bitterly telling Aragorn the truth about his Human lineage or keeping things as constant as they had always been whilst he remained within the care of the Elf. Legolas longed for consistency, craved it almost, and had done ever since his fleeing from the burning Mirkwood before it fell completely. It felt so much better when he stuck to his routines. Not like when he deviated – as when he'd first stumbled across the inquisitive young boy and ill-fated father – and the terrible aching pain in his chest grew almost unbearable. Of course, Legolas would never tell Aragorn any of that. He didn't have a whole lot of pride left but he was determined to cling onto the scrap he still believed he possessed.

"Well?" Aragorn demanded impatiently of his guardian.

Legolas shook his head and said, "Aragorn, I…"

"I knew it." Disappointment mingled with his anger, fuelling his rage rather than dampening it.

"Where do you think there is to go?" Legolas demanded as Aragorn walked away from him again.

"Anywhere is better here."

Tired of carefully restraining his own anger, Legolas decided he'd had enough of indulging the child under his care and stopped suddenly in his tracks, shouting, "Aragorn, stop right there!" When the boy did not halt as he had expected, he demanded, "Did you hear me?"

"I heard you," Aragorn muttered under his breath, knowing perfectly well that the Elf could hear him as well.

"I told you to stop."

"And I said no," Aragorn shouted this time.

"Aragorn, I am warning you."

"Warning me? You have no right to speak to me like that! You are not my father!"

"I am the closest thing you have!"

"Get away from me. I don't ever want to see you again." The tears flowed freely down his face now.

Realising what he'd said, Legolas stopped dead.

And then he was gone. Legolas tried to get his legs to move, to run after his young charge and desperately plead with him, but he could not move. He wanted to shout to the boy; to tell him that he was indeed a coward, that he didn't deserve the boy's respect, but his throat seemed incapable of forming a sound.

What good would it do to chase after him anyway? There would only be a short reprieve if he talked Aragorn down now and then it would start all over again. There would be more questions that Legolas could not – or perhaps _would not _– answer.

**OIOI**

Blind rage pushed him onwards, away from Legolas. Aragorn's mind whirled with a thousand thoughts, not one of them tangible enough to grasp ahold of. Anger at Legolas, at their life now, at the harsh words spoken on both sides. His own barbs had been just as cruel as the Elf's. He hated seeing the hurt in his guardian's eyes, even if at the time he had derived from it a kind of satisfaction.

Tears stung his eyes, blurring his vision until they spilled unchecked down his face. He swiped them angrily away despite there being no one around to see. Why should he feel guilty for what he'd said? It was all true. Legolas had deserved to be told the truth. The monotony of their life walking the same boring road could not continue. It was driving him close to madness. On his own at least he could just for once do something different – find some form of excitement. He could make it on his own. He did not need Legolas to protect him. He was not a child anymore but Legolas was never going to treat him as anything but, he realised. At least on his own, he would be able to prove to himself that he could face the world. Surely his father would never have smothered him so.

The heat of the day was starting to wane by now and Aragorn realised that it was nearing night-time. He had walked further than he'd expected and he had no clue where he was, even though he had no doubt passed this section of road before…

Blinking in confusion and looking about himself, Aragorn suddenly noticed that he was no longer stood on the flat, well-trodden road that he had travelled for the past six years but rather on the uneven and unknown ground beyond the Old Forest Road.

Well, he had wanted a new adventure so perhaps this unknown terrain was for the best. And he could always find his way back if he needed, he reasoned in order to reassure himself and push down the first, niggling chords of panic rising in his chest in spite of his desire for independence.

Delving into his mind, Aragorn easily recalled those irritating survival techniques Legolas had forced him to practice every single day to assure himself that he could do this all alone.

No more wandering for days on end with no rest at all. He would stop whenever and wherever he wanted.

The thrill of his new, unrestricted life pulsed through him and a soft smile of satisfaction came to his lips. Already this was better.

**To Be Continued…**

**Please review.**


	8. The Bitter Taste Of Freedom

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOI**

**A/N: Please review. They spur me on and help me whenever I get stuck on this story.**

**Thanks to everyone who already has left a review and added me to their Favourites/Alerts.**

**Warning: Mentions of abuse, torture and cannibalism in this chapter.**

**OIOI**

**Chapter 8 – The Bitter Taste of Freedom**

**TWO DAYS LATER…**

Aragorn was hungry. And hot. And tired. And his feet hurt. Heat pounded on him mercilessly from the overcast sky and rose from the parched, dusty ground beneath his feet. His body was glistening with sticky sweat and had already consumed almost all of the water contained within the two canteens in his bag.

As he reached for one of the almost dry flasks, he, not for the first time since leaving, wondered about Legolas and if the Elf had found water in his absence. A pang of guilt shot through him for taking all the water without so much as thinking of his guardian. Of course Legolas could take care of himself but Aragorn found that he still worried. It had only been two days but he had to admit that he already missed the Elf.

No, he shook his head firmly, taking a gulp of the warm, stale water. This had been his choice and he still believed that he had chosen correctly.

Aragorn's confidence was momentarily shaken in his decision as he lost his footing and tripped on a rock in his path, falling flat on his face to the ground, the opened canteen spilling from his hand, leeching its precious contents into the dry and dusty earth.

"No!" Aragorn exclaimed, grasping for the flask, only to discover that only very little water remained inside anymore.

Certainly he could live without Legolas – but not without water.

Dragging himself up off the hot earth, Aragorn angrily shoved the nearly empty flask back into his bag and looked around himself. He had to find a river or stream to replenish his supply. So much for resting for the night. He could not afford to pause without plentiful water. There must have been a river somewhere nearby, he reasoned.

With a twinge of sorrow, Aragorn realised that although he often went without food, Legolas never let him go without water. There had always been enough to sustain them even when the world was in the midst of a drought, as it seemed to be now. Never before had Aragorn questioned or even wondered how his guardian had always provided for him from the barren land. Now, on his own, he wished he had paid better attention.

Aragorn walked well into the night in search of the elusive river he hoped to be nearby, although in the dark he could see next to nothing. Legolas' eyesight was infinitely better than his own and Aragorn always thought that the Elf took some delight in making him walk nearly blind during the dark hours whilst he remained almost completely unbothered by it. Personally, he had never liked the dark very much. His mind too easily played tricks on him in the shadows.

Alone, this darkness was even harder to bear.

Stumbling onwards despite his irrational fears, Aragorn sought the water he desperately needed in order to continue his solitary journey. The falling of night had so far done very little to ease the soaring temperatures that had smothered the daylight hours and already he was sweating and thirsty again.

The ground under his feet was becoming more and more uneven and he tripped again, falling to his knees with an exclamation of annoyance.

"Damn," he repeated the word he'd heard often Legolas use when things were not going his way.

Scrambling to his feet, Aragorn dusted himself down and regained his bearings. He looked upwards to the black sky, unsurprised that if offered him no help with anything at all.

"Alright," he muttered to himself to spur himself onwards.

Taking more care over where he placed his feet, Aragorn started walking again but it was not long before he was once again thwarted by the rugged ground and he fell. This time, instead of climbing to his feet, he merely sat up straight, finally admitting defeat and deciding that he would give up on this impossible search for the night.

From his bag he pulled out the blanket he had taken from Legolas and laid down on the ground, wrapping the thin cloth around his body for comfort even through the heat. He firmly closed his eyes and tried to sleep but found that he couldn't. His mind still spun in the wake of his argument with his companion as it always did when he was forced to sit still, unable to work off his tense energy. Despite all his bottled-up anger at Legolas previously vented, Aragorn now just felt a kind of dejected regret at the unthinking words that had been exchanged between them in the heat of the moment.

The night dragged onwards and brought him little peace. So, before the first grey light of dawn, he threw his blanket off and shoved it, unfolded, into his bag.

Trudging through the dark landscape, sweating even in the night, which had yet to cool off much, Aragorn felt thoroughly miserable. His hunger had grown impossible to ignore and his mouth was too dry to speak.

It wasn't long before his tired, shuffling feet tripped over something again but this time he managed to catch himself with his outstretched hands before falling on his face. His hands scraped against the rough rocky ground and he hissed in pain when they came up scraped. Dusting himself off, Aragorn looked around himself.

The cry that his throat would have previously been too dry to create now poured from his lips before he even had a chance to consider that it might not have been the wisest idea to make a lot of noise. He frantically scrambled back away from what he – due to horrifying previous experience - easily recognised as being a warning placed on the ground by the murderous Wild Men that roamed around the road.

Panic rose in him and threatened to overwhelm. Desperately, he struggled to his feet and tried to run, even as he was tripping indelicately over his own boots. He remembered all too well the horror of the last time he had unwittingly stumbled upon the territory of the unstable, cannibalistic monsters born of Men and he didn't want to run into that kind of trouble again, not when he was all on his own in the world.

So he ran. Or tried to.

Stumbling through the darkness, Aragorn tried to force his weak legs to move faster in his desperation.

Flashes of the last time he'd come upon such a place came to his mind, blinding him to the present through fear.

The present, however, came suddenly – and painfully – back to him. Vice-like jaws snapped around his ankle, toppling him over with a yelp of surprise followed by a howl of sheer agony as sharp teeth bit into his flesh. His mind could not process what had happened through the intense pain, until, that was, he tried to struggle free and found himself trapped. His ankle was caught in a huge, rusty trap. With shaking hands, Aragorn reached down to touch the iron jaws, recoiling at the pain that shot up his leg. There was no blood, which surprised him; he would have thought that the blood should be leeching from him, the pain was so great and dizziness assailed him, although he considered this could be from shock rather than sudden blood-loss.

Whimpering, he curled stiff fingers around the top of the cold contraption with the intention of perhaps prising its jaws open but it would not budge and even the minute movement shot red hot pain all the way up his leg.

Tears rolled down his face as realisation kicked in. He was caught in a trap in the middle of the territory claimed by cannibalistic madmen.

As terror and nausea mingled dizzyingly, Aragorn's panicked mind screamed only one thing, which his mouth translated soon after.

"Legolas!"

**OIOI**

Pain tugged and pulled at Aragorn's awareness although in his hazy state he couldn't quite accurately pinpoint where the pain was coming from. It shot up his right leg and all the way across his right side, the source difficult to determine. A moan of discomfort slipped from his parched lips as he became more coherent. Cracking his eyes open with great effort, Aragorn realised that it had become lighter. Night had turned into day in the few minutes since he'd closed his eyes.

Despite the heat that pounded on him from all angles, Aragorn shuddered. The ground was hot and hard beneath him but when he tried to drag himself up to ease his discomfort, white hot agony shot up his right leg and he cried out, suddenly reminded of the cruel device holding him.

Now once more wide awake, Aragorn realised that he had been unconscious for all that had remained of the night. He couldn't tell what time of the day it was, but that he had wasted so much time already made panic stab through his chest again.

Once more, he tried to prise the trap open with his hands, which were already aching and bloody from his previous desperate efforts. Fresh blood was now also starting to seep from between the jaws clamped unyieldingly onto his ankle. Through the frenzy of renewed fear that bombarded his mind he wondered how much blood he would have to lose before he passed out again, leaving him once more completely vulnerable.

"Help! Help me! Legolas! Please," he cried despairingly.

A small, sensible part of his mind remembered that all the grisly warnings impaled in the ground around him, which had become visible in the daylight, meant that he was in the lair of madness and he should not attract said madness towards himself. But the other, more frantic, part of him just didn't care. He couldn't get himself free. He needed help.

"Legolas! Help me."

His voice was loud to him but it had been days since he had left Legolas on the Old Forest Road and he was probably far too far away for even the Elven ears to hear his cries.

Tears of desperation rolled down his cheeks as he continued to yell for help.

His cries stopped suddenly when he heard pounding footsteps coming towards him.

Within moments, filthy, angry faces covered in what seemed to be a kind of foul war paint, came into view. Men wielding all kinds of weaponry rushed towards him, surrounding him.

Fear overcame pain as the crazed Wild Men raced towards him and Aragorn clawed at bruised and bloody flesh in an attempt to get the trap off his leg. He felt skin and flesh rip and tear but the jaws remained stubbornly tight around his ankle.

The Men came to a sudden halt when they realised that the intruder remained trapped.

"Well, well, what have we got here?" one of the Men laughed, slinging his sword carelessly against his shoulder as he stepped over – or rather sauntered over – to Aragorn. "Looks like we've trapped an animal for supper at last."

The other men laughed and Aragorn struggled even harder to get free even though it was proving so far impossible.

"There's no use in squirming, boy. That snare's designed to hold stronger prey than you."

'Prey'. He was prey for them. Legolas' words from years ago when he'd explained what the Wild Men were capable of filled his mind and he cried out the Elf's name again.

"Scream all you like; it won't get you anything." The tall man turned to the others – about a dozen in total – and told them, "Start a fire and sort through the day's hoard."

"Help!" Aragorn screamed, futilely trying to get away.

Chuckling, the man crouched down and tapped the metal jaws of the trap gripping Aragorn's ankle, examining the red blood that came off on his fingers. "Well, aren't you a feisty thing." His fingers moved up to Aragorn's leg and the young man felt nausea rise in his stomach when he saw the hungry light gleaming in the man's dark brown eyes. Hungry for what though was what truly terrified him.

"Don't touch me," he growled out, wincing inwardly when it came out as more of a whimper.

"Ohh, little butterfly, don't get angry with me," the foul man laughed. The roaming fingers reached over and scraped down Aragorn's cheek. Then the man leaned into him, his face just inches from Aragorn's own. "You're in my net now and there is no escape."

This time Aragorn did actually gag as he felt the man's hot, putrid breath against his cheek. He smelled of sickeningly sweet decay. Black teeth, chipped and broken, grinned at him; long, lank hair brushed against his shoulder.

"Leave me alone," Aragorn choked out thickly.

"You should mind your mouth, boy," the filthy man said, his mood changing in an instant. Long, black fingernails, cracked and chipped, now dug into Aragorn's cheek.

"Legolas!" Aragorn cried out as loud as he could.

"Shut up!" The man reached into the pocket of his jacket and whipped out a filthy rag, which he balled up and stuffed into Aragorn's mouth. Then he grabbed Aragorn's hands and bound them with a blood-soaked length of rope from his belt behind his back. Patting Aragorn's cheek once he was bound up, the man smiled tightly. "Be good now."

With the same, horrible smile, the man climbed to his feet with a grunt. He strutted over to his fellows and Aragorn did not dare take his eyes off them, wide as they were through his terror.

Already the men had built up a fire from wood they carried on their packs and had lit it in the most fumbling way Aragorn could imagine possible and were now gathered about it. Two more men emerged then, between them carrying a long, bulky object wrapped in a thin brown blanket, stained with Aragorn didn't want to know what. It couldn't have been too heavy as they didn't seem to struggle with its weight, although it made a loud thud when dropped to the dry ground not far from Aragorn. The young captive flinched at the sickening crack the bulk made.

In all the years they had travelled together, Aragorn had never seen Legolas catch anything near this big. Perhaps these Men had managed to trap a deer, Aragorn considered hopefully. It was indeed a wishful thought, one which was proven horribly incorrect when one of the Men ripped the blanket off their kill.

Aragorn retched against his disgusting gag when he saw the naked, wasted body of an old woman laid on the ground near him her chest split open, no blood spilling from the cavity. Milky-filmed, dead eyes stared unseeingly at up him, a thin-lipped mouth gaped at him, inside a sickening shade of black – the body was rotten already.

The sound of his gagging attracted towards him the attention of one of the sweating, newly arrived men.

"What is this?" he asked curiously, flashing his own nearly toothless smile in appreciation.

"Leave it alone," the long-haired man, who was clearly their leader, snapped from next to the fire.

"Did you catch it?"

"No, he got caught by the trap."

"Ha!" the younger man exclaimed excitedly. "I told you that thing would be of use one day. Didn't I tell you?"

"Shut up."

"Can we have him instead?" He kicked at the dead woman on the ground. "I reckon this thing is rotten to the core."

"No. Leave it alone."

"But…"

"Would you stop complaining? Hurry up and prepare the food," their leader commanded angrily.

"Hey, we hauled the thing all the way over here," the second man, who'd carried the woman moaned.

"Yeah, and now you can finish the job," the long-haired man told them, throwing a machete-like knife onto the ground near them,

With a sigh, the impatient youth who still looked hungrily at the trapped Aragorn, bent down to retrieve the dull knife. Gazing almost longingly at the boy, he ran his thumb along the seemingly dull blade, grinning at Aragorn as he did so.

Unable to do anything else in his ensnared state, Aragorn merely glared at the man, who couldn't have been much older than him.

"Hey! Get on with it," the leader barked.

"Fine," the youth retorted, turning from Aragorn and crouching down next to the woman.

Aragorn desperately wanted to look away as the men hacked indifferently at the grey corpse, first stripping it of any meaningful flesh, then removing the head, arms and legs, throwing them along with all the other useless parts in a separate pile. That same terrified, morbid curiosity that had pinned him to the spot six years ago in that gruesomely decorated copse of trees now kept his eyes fixed upon the gore that splattered the now sodden soil just feet from where he sat still held painfully in the rusty trap.

The poor, wasted woman was far beyond pain but Aragorn still felt empathy towards her. She did not deserve death – and even if she had, surely no one deserved this cruel fate.

What terrified Aragorn more though was the thought that he could very well be next. Hungry, maddened eyes stared at him from the fire where already parts of the woman were being cooked on a spit. He was in far better condition than the emaciated body the men were currently cleaving up, surely they would not wait long before preparing their next meal.

Once the two men were done with the woman, they joined the others by the fire, carrying the remaining slivers of flesh in bloodied hands, uncaring of the gruesome sight it presented. Aragorn was left alone, bound, gagged and trapped on the edge of their grim campsite.

He stared blankly with tears running freely down his face at the grisly remains of the woman. He recalled Legolas trying to explain to him after that horrible day amongst the trees but he hadn't really wanted to know back then and he had given the whole subject of Men consuming Men as little thought as he possibly could. But there was no escaping this. This wasn't a no-holds-barred cautionary tale told by his mentor in the darkness of night. This was real. The cruel trap on his leg was impossible to get out of and now he was all alone. There was no one to rescue him, no one to help him.

"Hungry?" the leader of the madmen called from where the Men had gathered around the fire. When Aragorn turned his gaze towards the flames, the leader, having shed his shirt to reveal a quite full form, held out in a filthy hand a rare piece of cooked meat.

The mere thought of consuming human flesh made Aragorn gag again and he turned his head away from the sight of the men eating greedily of their kill. Laughing rowdily at the reaction, the men turned back to their food, unfazed it seemed by its source. Aragorn wondered how long ago they had been like this and supposed it must have been some time for them to be so nonchalant about killing and eating their own kind.

The smell of cooking meat wafting in his direction was also sickening and he fought desperately against the rising nausea, forcing it down. Tears fell unchecked down his cheeks. The pain in his leg was getting worse by the second as the adrenaline of the Men's return began to wear off and he found himself growing increasingly tired, probably from the blood loss, he reasoned. He wondered how much longer he had to live; when the Men would dispose of him. Would they do it right away or were they full from their current meal? He didn't know which he feared more – dying soon or hanging around, perhaps bleeding to death.

"What have we got here, then?" the leader startled Aragorn from his thoughts.

The dirty man was crouched next to him, apparently finished eating his macabre supper, with Aragorn's bag in his hand. He had forgotten all about that. Not that it would have helped his current predicament much; when he had left Legolas three days ago, he hadn't thought to pick up his dagger and it was Legolas' pack that contained all the weapons, at the Elf's over-protective insistence.

"Huh, interesting," the man muttered as he tipped the bag's contents out onto the cracked earth just out of Aragorn's reach to examine. Immediately, the leader of the madmen picked out the flask and shook it to check its contents. "Useless," he announced when he realised there was no water inside, throwing the canteen aside carelessly. "Ah, excellent." He laid out the spare blanket that Aragorn carried – Legolas' blanket. "And what have we here?"

Aragorn looked up at the curious question and saw the man's blackened, greasy fingers examining a small, battered leather pouch. His already erratic heartbeat sped up and he shook his head fervently.

"What is this? Important to you, is it?"

The man pulled the delicate strings apart and peered inside. With a frown, he picked a small, golden ring attached to a dull metal chain out of the bag.

"Hm." The man turned the golden ring around in his fingers, unimpressed. "Gold is worthless compared to you, boy." Nevertheless, he crammed the trinket back into the small pouch and stuffed that into the pocket of his tattered trousers.

"This, however…" The man held up the thick jacket, in which the pouch had been carefully hidden by Aragorn inside the pocket; that Legolas had one day returned with, never telling Aragorn where he had gotten it from.

The man tried the jacket on despite the heat. It was too small for him and yet he looked pleased with the find.

"Nice," he complimented himself. "Now, what to do with you…."

Panic raced through Aragorn's heart again. Was he going to die now?

"My friends all want you, you know?" he said, drawing a knife from the belt holding up poorly fitting trousers. It gleamed slightly in the firelight. In the flickering light cast by the flames, the man looked even more sinister and Aragorn tried desperately not to look at the grisly pile of human remains close to him, which soon he may be added to. "But I think that we should wait a while." He trailed the tip of the knife up Aragorn's leg, coming to rest at the top of his thigh.

That hungry gleam was back in his eyes and it had nothing to do with food. Aragorn wondered if death was preferable in this case.

"You are such a pretty thing. It seems a shame to waste you."

Aragorn mumbled, "Please," through his gag but it was so muffled it was unintelligible.

The man laughed but made no move to remove the gag. He moved the knife up further, lingering with a gappy smile at his groin, and then moved all the way up to his chest.

"Well fed, aren't you? How does an innocent like you stay so plump?"

Aragorn wondered if he should tell this crazed man that he was not alone, that he had a friend nearby, fully armed and dangerous and that he could come for him at any moment. Several factors prevented this, however. Firstly, he was gagged and unable to speak. And second, he didn't want the Men to actually start searching about for Legolas. The thought that the Elf might get caught as well frightened Aragorn and tears pooled in his eyes again.

Shrugging off his own question, the man trailed his fingers across Aragorn's cheek, gripping hard when the young man tried to escape him.

"Don't fight me, boy," the man growled through gritted, rotten teeth.

As Aragorn stilled at the warning, the man smiled again, shifting so close that Aragorn felt hot, rancid breath waft nauseatingly across his face. Aragorn looked desperately around himself, looking for some way of escape, something to get the man off him. However, nothing was nearby to aid him; only the remains of the woman, serving as a reminder of his own eventual fate once the leader of this band of madmen was finished with him. The Men around the fire were watching their companion with equally hungry eyes, thrilled by what they obviously knew was coming. They were excited and this only served to intensify Aragorn's terror.

"You are so very young. So very…beautiful." Hot lips were pressed to the edge of Aragorn's own lips and he closed his eyes with a whimper. "Yes, cry for me," the man breathed huskily.

The pain in his torn leg paled into insignificance through his overwhelming ice-cold fear. He wanted to scream for help even though there were no friendly ears around to hear, but the gag filling his mouth prevented much more than a whimper escaping his throat. Tears ran freely down his face as greedy hands roamed over his untouched body, his only protest against what was happening to him. He couldn't scream for help, he couldn't even struggle free from the man's grasp as he remained secured in the horrible contraption on his leg. He clenched his eyes tightly shut in revulsion as those filthy, groping hands wandered back down to his groin, seeking pleasure from the child.

"Please no," Aragorn whined through his gag. He may have been an innocent but he knew instinctively what was coming and he feared it beyond all else.

"Oh, yes," the man breathed in ecstasy, groping madly at the young, innocent man who squirmed deliciously beneath him.

"No."

As a rough hand desperately cupped him, Aragorn felt the man's own desire pressing hotly against his trembling body. He longed to escape from this thing worse than any nightmare he could have conjured. He willed himself to ignore the touches, to pretend this wasn't happening although he failed miserably.

"Yes, my boy, you go ahead and…"

The man stopped suddenly in his actions and Aragorn's eyes shot open when there was a sudden, unfamiliar whooshing sound, followed by a soft thump – obviously the cause of the man's pausing. Then, stunned shouts echoed around as the other men jumped up from their places, staring in wide-eyed amazement at their dead companion, face down on the ground with a roughly hewn arrow protruding from his back.

**To Be Continued…**


	9. From The Dark

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**Thank you all for your reviews. Much appreciated. Here's Chapter 9 for you all. I'm afraid we're not out of the dark just yet… Enjoy it.**

**OIOIOI**

**Chapter 9 – From The Dark**

"What the…?" the leader, still straddled indelicately over Aragorn, exclaimed, looking around in the darkness.

Before the Men could come close to thinking about picking up their weapons, another arrow pierced the heart of one of the Men, this time coming from an entirely different direction to the first.

"We're surrounded," one of the Men yelled as they scrambled about for their weapons, keeping low to the ground.

"Get them, then," their leader yelled angrily, jumping up from Aragorn and hastily doing up his belt to keep his trousers from falling down. He ran – or rather stumbled - towards the fire, over which now indistinguishable human meat still cooked. Grabbing up a rusty sword from the ground, he whirled around desperately as his companions fanned out to search the darkness for the attackers.

Suddenly, more arrows shot out from the darkness, this time taking down five more men in quick succession. Cries sounded as the men fell to the ground, the shots aimed to kill not disable. They lost any bravery they'd momentarily possessed then and retreated closer together towards the fire and light, which although comforting, was probably their downfall as it made them even easier targets for the shooters.

"Where are they?" the leader demanded of his equally clueless followers. Two more arrows shot out of the darkness directly in front of them, bringing down two more of the men. "Come out and fight us properly, cowards!" he shouted into the hot darkness, his voice trembling slightly in spite of his bravado.

This was not a good invitation to make. Suddenly, out of the night came a tall man, gold hair and silver weapons glinting in the light of the fire, moving fast. Blue eyes were hard as steel. The men trembled at the sight, taking frightened steps backwards, away from the imposing sight.

Aragorn watched in utter amazement – and no small amount of relief – as Legolas, fierce and brilliant, charged unrelentingly at the Men. Aragorn wanted to shout at him, to warn him but he could do nothing but murmur incoherently from behind his gag.

Legolas did not hesitate for even a second as the men clumsily lunged at him, their weapons drawn. He slashed at them with deadly sharp blades, easily overpowering them with fast, precise movements honed over the centuries to absolute perfection. They fell without putting up much of a fight, already scared stiff by the fearsome anger burning in the man's eyes and on his face. They had never seen such fury. Not that they had long to dwell on it. White knives, shining with the flickering orange light of the fire shed blood with a speed that terrified those who stood long enough to witness it.

Once all the men were down, Legolas turned slowly to face Aragorn, apparently able to see into the darkness. Stepping over the bodied he had dispatched, Legolas walked steadily over to his charge, his breathing only slightly laboured from his exertions.

Relief swept over Aragorn, so much so that through his disgusting, muffling gag, he sobbed wretchedly. But then blessed relief turned to absolute horror and he started shaking his head frantically and renewing his agonising struggles to get free of the trap, shouting into the filthy cloth in both warning to his guardian and sheer pain.

Legolas needed no warning though. He whirled on the leader of the Men, who had survived his initial assault – perhaps by design – his eyes flashing with unrestrained anger.

Throwing himself at the man with an almost savage, primal yell, Legolas knocked the loathsome human to the ground, snatching his weapon from his hand and tossing it aside easily. When the now defenceless man struggled beneath him, Legolas slammed his fist into the filthy face.

"Get off of me," the man grunted, shoving uselessly against the Elf.

"You laid your foul hands on him," Legolas accused in a growl, punctuated with another punch.

The foolish man chuckled, blood spattering down his chin from multiple broken teeth. "Yours, is he?"

Legolas shouted in anger, hitting the man again. "You disgust me!"

"Pretty boy."

"I am going to kill you," Legolas told him in a low, dangerous voice.

Barking shortly in laughter, the man craned his neck so that his face was so close to Legolas that in the semi-darkness, the Elf could see every detail of his awful features. "It was worth it," he said in a gurgling, amused whisper through the blood pooling in his throat.

With hatred burning more fiercely than he had felt in a long time in his veins, Legolas finished the abhorrent man off. The crack that resounded in the otherwise quiet night made Aragorn visibly flinch as Legolas snapped the neck of his abuser.

The silence that followed was thick with tension. For what seemed like a long time, Legolas crouched over the dead man, his breathing heavy. It was only when he heard a muffled whimper from nearby that Legolas climbed to his feet and turned once more to face Aragorn.

Seeing the innocent boy bound and trapped made Legolas' blood boil with anger at the human abusers and he longed to kill them all over again just for the sheer joy of it. However, he shoved this desire aside and dropped his white-handled knives, now dripping with fresh blood, to the ground. Legolas ran over to the boy, falling to his knees by his side. Realising that his release was near, Aragorn started to get out of the ropes that held him again, crying out at the pain in his ankle that these actions caused.

"Hold still," Legolas told him, reaching for the gag.

"Get me out," Aragorn shouted from around the filthy cloth shoved in his mouth, struggling even harder than before.

He didn't think this pitiful cry could be understood but Legolas took ahold of his arms, trying to ease his movements. "I am going to get you out but you have to hold still, alright?" Trembling through his continuing cries, Aragorn nodded shakily, finding solace in Legolas' eyes, which stared calmly at him. "Alright."

Abandoning untying the bonds for the time being, Legolas reached up and snatched the edge of the rag in Aragorn's mouth and pulled it out. Aragorn very nearly choked when it was pulled free. He could hardly catch his breath, even though he gulped in great lungfuls of hot air, retching repeatedly at the smell of roasting flesh wafting around him and also crying in sheer relief at being free.

"Just breathe," Legolas reassured, rubbing Aragorn's arm as the boy cried.

Finally, the young man gained his breath and looked up at his protector in pure astonishment. He couldn't quite believe that Legolas was actually here. The Elf had gone. They had walked away from one another. And yet here his guardian was, saving his life yet again.

"Legolas?" the man cried.

"I'm here. Just hold still while I untie you."

"How…?"

Ignoring the question, Legolas pulled out a dagger from his belt and sliced through the ropes binding Aragorn's hands together. The moment they were free, Legolas found himself wrapped in the boy's arms, being held so tight that it knocked the breath out of him.

"I'm so sorry," Aragorn sobbed pitifully into Legolas' chest.

"It's going to be alright now."

"I'm sorry. Please forgive me."

Legolas pulled back, laying his hands on either side of Aragorn's tear-stained face. "We can talk about this later. Right now we have to get you out of here before more of them come."

Aragorn nodded weakly and said in a trembling voice, "My leg."

"I know. Keep still while I take a look."

As Legolas moved down to better see the boy's ankle, Aragorn grabbed his arm suddenly. "Don't leave me."

"Don't worry; I'm not going anywhere."

Legolas shifted down to see Aragorn's ankle caught in the horrible trap. The foot was a bloodied mess after all of Aragorn's frantic pulling to get free and Legolas winced at the pain the boy must be in by now.

Nevertheless, deft fingers felt the ancient metal snare for weaknesses but despite its rusted ago it was solid, unbreakable. His fingertips drifted over a small, shaped hole in the joint of the jaws. A lock.

"There must be a key somewhere," the Elf muttered to himself. "Have you seen a key?"

"No," Aragorn whimpered tearfully. "Please get me out," the boy cried pitifully, tugging feebly at his trapped leg.

"I will but you must hold still. Don't pull. Just sit still. I have to search these Men for a key. I will be just over there."

"Within shouting distance," Aragorn's voice trembled, a very small smile flitting over pale lips.

Laying the palm of his hand gently against Aragorn's face, Legolas smiled in return and said softly, "Within shouting distance." He remembered enforcing that rule in Aragorn when he had first taken charge of the young life – apparently the boy had at last decided the rule was not 'ridiculous' as he once claimed in his frustrated youth.

The Elf rifled methodically through the pockets of the Men, restraining the anger at the beings that still burned hot in his chest, until around the neck of a particularly young man, he found on a piece of dirty, frayed string, a round iron key hanging. Ripping it off of the bloody, dead boy, Legolas ran back to Aragorn who had remained still but who was staring wildly out into the dark, waiting anxiously for his guardian's return.

"Legolas, get me out."

"I am. Key." He shoved the key down into the lock, twisting until he heard a mechanical click.

Immediately, he felt Aragorn tug to get loose but he grabbed the man's leg to prevent movement. "No, wait just a moment."

"It hurts," Aragorn whimpered, the full force of his pain hitting him again and he cried out loud through the force of it.

Legolas nodded in sympathy. "I know. Now, I'm going to prise this apart as carefully as I can and then I need you to pull your leg free. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Here we go."

"Legolas, I…"

"Hold the apologies for later," Legolas interrupted, recognising what was coming. "Right; on three."

And on the count of three Legolas used all his strength to pull the jaws of the heavy trap apart, wincing when the spikes tugged cruelly at Aragorn's torn flesh and the boy howled in agony. The contraption was heavier than expected but with trembling arms he slowly managed to pull it open far enough for Aragorn to be able to drag himself free.

The boy had to claw at the dry ground to pull himself away from the contraption. Breathing heavily and crying in pain, Aragorn heard the heavy clamp slam closed again a moment later and he flinched, half expecting crushing agony to erupt around his ankle again but thankfully it did not. He should have known Legolas would not have let go if he were not out of the way.

Fallen on his front when he'd struggled loose, Aragorn could not find the strength to move for a long time and as he retched and cried, he felt Legolas crouch at his side, rubbing his back soothingly and stroking his hair until he calmed down.

Once he had gained his breath again, although remained laid on the ground through his weakness, he felt Legolas lift his injured foot, resting it on his lap so he could wrap a length of cloth around the bloody mess. Then the Elf lowered his foot to the ground with such incredible gentleness that it didn't even jar and cause more pain, and then he felt confident hands on his arms.

"Aragorn, we have to go now. Can you stand?"

The boy nodded weakly so Legolas helped him stand up, bending to retrieve his blood-coated white knives from where they lay momentarily forgotten on the ground.

"Wait. They took my bag," Aragorn shakily told his guardian.

"I'll come back…"

"No! He has…" Aragorn pointed towards the dead man by the fire, the leader who'd been straddling him upon Legolas' arrival.

"What?"

Using Legolas for support as he hopped painfully along, Aragorn went towards the fire, choking on the sickening smell of roasting human flesh and trying desperately to keep his eyes averted from the half-eaten meal steaming on the spit. He did notice Legolas' eyes taking in the disgusting sight and saw the Elf's jaw clench tightly at the sight. And yet Legolas did not look scared. Aragorn didn't know how this could be possible given what he was looking at. The thought that perhaps Legolas had seen something similar – or perhaps something worse – in his past, made Aragorn shudder.

"Alright, sit here; I'll get your bag."

Legolas walked off then, quickly snatching up the stolen bag and picking up all the things the leader of the Men had scattered about. He turned around to see Aragorn, now sat right next to the bloodied corpse of the human leader, holding in his hand a small, golden ring, shining almost red in the firelight.

A shudder ripped inexplicably through him.

"What is that?" the Elf asked in a tight voice, once more standing before Aragorn.

The boy startled as if he had been in an entirely different place and forgot that his guardian even existed, and clenched his hand around the golden band. Shoving it back into the leather pouch, which he in turn carefully put away in his pocket, Aragorn shook his head dismissively. "Nothing. Just a gift…my father gave to me," he answered. He couldn't help but frown at the strange expression on Legolas' face – one he was entirely unfamiliar with. "What's wrong?" he asked innocently.

Legolas shook his head slowly and cleared his throat. "Uh, nothing's wrong. Let's just get out of here."

The cold chill inside of him intensified as he turned away from the young man.

So this was what Arathorn had meant about the boy needing protection from himself. Suddenly, Legolas felt the weight of his responsibility intensify beyond all else.

"Legolas?" Aragorn asked in concern as the Elf continued to ignore him. Now that he had his father's most precious possession back he was eager to leave this place of death. "Can we go?"

"Yes. Yes, let's go," the Elf said, breaking from his seeming trance and turning back to face his ward. He stepped forward to help the boy to his feet again, letting Aragorn lean on him for support and balance.

Leaving the horrendous campsite behind with no small amount of relief, they walked – or in Aragorn's case, hopped - away into the darkness. Aragorn didn't know where they were headed but he prayed that they would get there soon as red hot agony was pulsing up his leg from his abused ankle. He could barely see the rugged ground beneath him in the dead of night but Legolas never once let him trip. The Elf walked steadily and silently, taking as much of Aragorn's weight as the man needed. Aragorn longed to break the tense silence between them, to beg for forgiveness for his previous words and rash actions, but his pain-fevered mind couldn't think up a good enough way to say what he wanted to, so he settled for keeping his silence, concentrating simply on hopping forwards instead.

He got further under his own steam than he thought he would before he felt the world tilt.

Legolas was not surprised when the boy collapsed limply against him. Ready hands caught him easily, gently lowering his limp body to the ground so that he could lift the child up into his arms. It was at least another league before he would reach the place where he had stored his own belongings and that he considered to be a safe haven. Legolas welcomed the distance; not because he was afraid that more Men might come after them in wake of his slaughter of their kin nor because of the horror he'd left behind but because the distance gave him time to think upon what he had learned this night.

Those words that Arathorn had mumbled to him in his final few moments, when carefully out of his son's earshot, became all the more poignant now. He was certain that Aragorn did not know what it was that he now possessed and equally sure that Arathorn did not know what exactly he had passed down to his son. This made Legolas angry. What kind of father would lay that sort of burden on his child?

The ancient line of Human Kings, those who had long ago faded into legend after the downfall of the final King, was fated to return to the throne one day, this much Legolas had known even before he had met the man and his son on the road, for such tales of Human folly had been favourites within Thranduil's court in his homeland. Arathorn had held the ancient, albeit greatly diluted over time, bloodline and so now did Aragorn. Royal blood flowed in the veins of the child that now laid unconscious and achingly vulnerable in his arms. Aragorn was the heir to Gondor, once great and powerful realm of Men. One day, Aragorn would be king.

That in itself was an immense responsibility. But this added complication, which Arathorn had alluded to on his deathbed, was a whole new thing.

Such a small thing that Aragorn now unwittingly carried could very well change this entire decimated world of Shadow they lived in. The Ring of Power, created by the devious Dark Lord Sauron who now held sway over all of Arda, was in the pocket of an innocent, oblivious child.

The Ring, and its immense power, was a well-known object to Elves, Men and Dwarves alike and had been ever since the war to end all wars had first started to ravage the lands and peoples of Middle Earth. Many from all races had sought it over the decades, to their inevitable ruin. To most, it was worth the risk seeking it carried, as this ring, created by Sauron himself in the fires of the great volcanic mountain Orodruin, the Mountain of Doom in Sauron's fortress land of Mordor far away to the East, was the most powerful weapon on all of Arda and the one thing that could potentially undo Sauron's rule.

Sauron sought his Ring of Power relentlessly during the Last War, scouring and devastating the lands of the Elves first to find it. The Firstborn had resisted, even banding together as not seen since the last time Sauron had threatened the world many centuries before during the War of the Last Alliance of Men and Elves. They gathered together the three Rings forged for the Elven kings; themselves powerful, as they had been forged at the same time as the One in the hope of defeating the Dark Lord, for these Rings were not ruled by Sauron as had been his wish when commissioning them. But it had all been in vain.

Although the Dark Lord had never found his precious One Ring, he had managed, through sheer brute force and no small amount of cunning, to gather together and make use of the three Rings of the Elves.

He'd first taken Narya, the Ring of Fire, from the Grey Pilgrim, Gandalf the Wizard; then taken Nenya from the Elven Queen Galadriel in the forest of Lothlorien; and finally snatched Vilya from Lord Elrond, Master of the Elven sanctuary of Imladris. Individually, these powerful Rings had had little effect on the immense power of Mordor, but, brought together in the Necromancer's fire, they had enough strength to take for the Shadow what few lands had by then remained free on Arda.

No one knew exactly where the Ring of Power, the One Ring, had disappeared to after it had been taken by the King of Men Isildur during the War of the Last Alliance. The Wise knew its immense power and for years after Sauron, reincarnated and regenerated in his once dead land of Mordor rose to power again, they searched the lands for it in a bid to end it all.

How it had come to be in Arathorn's possession, Legolas could not even guess, for even though he was a descendant of Isildur, the great and last true King of Gondor; that king had died without the Ring on him and offering no clue as to where it had disappeared to.

So now, Legolas not only had the future King of Men to look after but he was also responsible for the Ring of Power. Surely the Dark Lord was still searching. Perhaps not frantically as before but even with the all the lands of Middle Earth firmly under his control, he would still desire it.

As Legolas reached his destination, a shard of fear shot through his heart.

What had he gotten himself into?

**To Be Continued…**


	10. Lineage

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOI**

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. My writer's block is still refusing to move but I am pushing onwards, unwilling to give up on this story despite the difficulties. Normally I have completely finished writing a story before daring to put it up but this remains a working progress.**

**Special thanks to Ziggy3 for your words of support.**

**Enjoy the chapter.**

**OIOI**

**Chapter 10 – Lineage**

**OIOIOI**

Aragorn woke with a choking tightness in his throat that very nearly made him gag. Coughing harshly to clear away the discomfort, he opened his eyes to the bright orange light of a fire close-by. For a very brief moment, he panicked, thinking that he was still in the captivity of the madmen, that there was no hope of him escaping the same fate as that poor woman he'd witnessed being brutally devoured.

Then a firm hand was placed upon his shoulder from behind and he twisted suddenly under a thin blanket to see Legolas' worried face hovering above him, eyes glittering in concern.

"Legolas?" the young man mumbled, clearly confused. But he trusted Legolas and he instinctively calmed in his presence. Nothing could happen to him so long as Legolas was at his side.

"Yes, I'm here," Legolas said in a whisper. "Relax."

Struggling to do as instructed, to calm the erratic beating of his heart, Aragorn reached his hand up and without hesitation clamped it tightly around Legolas', which remained on his shoulder, wanting to feel the Elf close by. "Where is 'here'?"

"We're somewhere safe," the Elf reassured cryptically.

"But _where_?" Aragorn persisted, attempting to struggle up into a sitting position so he could be sure that the place in which he'd woken was indeed safe.

"Stay where you are. Your leg was badly injured," Legolas told him firmly, pressing his hand down ever so slightly in an effort to keep the boy in place.

As if on cue, Aragorn felt a horribly familiar stabbing pain in his right leg and he let out a cry. "Ah, it hurts," he told the Elf unnecessarily, tears gathering in his eyes. He went to reach out, as if to touch the pain, but Legolas' hand held him back.

"I know." Legolas flinched slightly at the memory of hearing Aragorn's delusional cries of pain as he lay semi-conscious whilst Legolas used the torn-up cloth of his own shirt to bandage the multiple wounds the trap's brutal teeth had inflicted. They had broken his heart to listen hear, knowing especially that he was the cause of the additional pain his ward suffered, even though he also knew that it was for the greater good. And yet, he had stayed loyally at the boy's side the entire time, held his hand as he called out for his deceased father in his confused, fevered state. "I am sorry, Aragorn; I wish I had something that could ease your pain," Legolas said softly, sadly.

Swallowing thickly, Aragorn blinked to clear his blurred vision then looked up into regretful blue eyes. "It's alright."

Legolas offered him a small smile and ran his hand almost tenderly over dark, ruffled hair.

"Legolas?"

"How are you here?"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, how did you find me?"

The Elf smiled again and assured, "You didn't honestly think I would just let you wander off all on your own, did you?"

Aragorn frowned in confusion, not quite understanding the undertone of humour in the Elf's words. "But…What I said to you…"

Legolas shook his head. "We don't have to talk about this right now. You need to rest."

"Have I told you how sorry I am?" Aragorn ignored his suggestion and asked. Tears sprang suddenly to his eyes and this time spilled unchecked down his pale cheeks.

"Not in the past few hours but then you have been asleep so can be forgiven," Legolas smiled, wiping Aragorn's tears away with his sleeve.

Aragorn sniffed, offering his guardian a trembling smile. "I am so sorry."

"You are safe now - that's all that matters."

"No, it's not."

When Aragorn tried once more to sit up, Legolas urged him, "Stay still, Aragorn, you are hurt. Moving will only make the pain greater."

"No, I have to apologise for…"

"Aragorn, enough," Legolas told him firmly. "Now is not the time."

"But…"

"Once you have recovered sufficiently then you can apologise to me until you're blue in the face. In fact, I expect nothing less. But for now, you must rest. Lie back and try to sleep."

Wisely coming to the realisation that he was not going to win an argument with the Elf – and honestly feeling too guilty to even try to disobey Legolas' orders – Aragorn laid back down.

There was a long moment of quiet, during which the only sound was the crackling of the fire.

Fed up with the lack of conversation, which was making the air increasingly tense, Aragorn broke the silence by asking, "Did you track me?"

"Sorry?"

"After I…left. Did you track me?"

"Oh. Yes."

Not exactly the full conversation Aragorn had been hoping for. "I never noticed."

"I stayed a day or so behind you," Legolas briefly explained.

"Why?"

"I didn't think you wanted to see me," the Elf said softly and Aragorn closed his eyes in sadness. "You were not hard to trace." Legolas smiled over at him in amusement that just hours ago as his ward lay unconscious and delirious he didn't think he'd ever be able to feel again. "We'll have to work on your skills of concealment in the future." Suddenly, the Elf looked anxious again. "That is, if you wish to stay with me now."

"Of course I do," Aragorn answered without hesitation.

Reaching out to touch his hand to Aragorn's still slightly fevered forehead, Legolas smiled, "Good."

Sighing in relief that Legolas was not completely unwilling to take him back as he had feared after their previous heated exchange of hurtful words, Aragorn let his eyes fall closed, listening to the soft crackling of the fire. This proved a big mistake because concentrating on the sound of fire instantly brought back the horrific memories of his short time with the Wild Men, of them cooking their gruesome catch over a roaring fire, celebrating the death of another as they consumed one of their own kind.

His eyes snapped open to find the fire had burned down to ash and natural light was now flooding into the safe haven provided by Legolas. At the memory of the cannibals – or had it been a dream, for so much time had passed? – Aragorn gagged, shifting awkwardly over to his side as he coughed and choked violently. Tears spilled from his eyes as his stomach heaved painfully.

Amidst the choking, the retching and the sobbing, Aragorn heard Legolas speak his name, the soft sound like a beacon of light in the darkness of fear.

Gentle hands pulled him up and he found himself wrapped in Legolas' arms. Crying hard, he pressed his face into the cool fabric covering Legolas chest, shamelessly clinging onto the Elf who was forever bound as his protector.

Rubbing Aragorn's back, Legolas soothed, "It's alright. Shh, shh, you're safe. I'm right here."

For a long while, the Elf calmly comforted his upset young charge until Aragorn's cries finally died down to nothing and he lay quiet in his guardian's arms loosely embracing arms. When Aragorn coughed gently and moved his hand to rest gingerly against his churning stomach, Legolas looked down at him in concern.

"Are you alright?"

Aragorn nodded against the Elf's chest but murmured croakily, "Thirsty. I wish we had some water."

"Oh, here." Legolas awkwardly disentangled one of his arms from around the boy and reached for the flask at his side. "I'd almost forgotten about this." Manoeuvring his arms again so that steady fingers could unscrew the canteen that Aragorn recognised instantly as his own, which had been dry as the desert last time he'd seen it before his capture. "Drink."

The previously dry flask was now filled to the top with water and Aragorn took it gratefully, wondering how it had come to be filled again as he raised it, with Legolas' hand keeping it steady as his own hands trembled still, to his lips.

The water was distastefully warm due to the heat of the haven they were tucked away in but to Aragorn's parched throat it was the most refreshing thing he'd ever tasted in all his life. Even so, he sipped carefully, still wary of his unsettled stomach, fighting the impulse to gulp the whole lot down in one go.

Once he was done, Legolas took the flask from him, screwed the top back on and laid the canteen carefully aside for later.

"Where did that come from?" Aragorn asked warily, watching the Elf's measured movements in almost fascination.

"There is a river nearby."

Aragorn peered up at him with startled grey eyes. "You left me?" he asked in a small, frightened voice, bordering on childlike.

Laying his hand on Aragorn's head gently to calm his rising panic, Legolas softly answered, "Only for a moment." Upon glancing down and seeing the look of sheer panic now on Aragorn's face, he gently assured, "Don't worry, I wasn't gone for long. You were safe."

"It could have been dangerous out there...for you."

"I was fine," Legolas smiled simply, reminding Aragorn that his guardian was afraid of nothing.

Once again silence fell between them and once again Aragorn felt compelled to break it. "Legolas, those Men…"

"Yes?"

Never before had Legolas actually invited his charge's questions before; it was an oddity but Aragorn found that he was glad for it because he wanted to understand, even if the thought of understanding terrified him. "What…? Why are they like that?"

Legolas sighed deeply. Normally he would have simply dodged the question that was so distasteful to answer but so far that policy had not worked particularly well for him, having already scared Aragorn away once through the frustration caused, so he decided there and then upon a change of tactics. He told the truth.

"They are driven by need - and increasingly by madness. To survive, they consume their own kind. Hunger drives Men to do dreadful deeds, Aragorn."

"But…we go hungry all the time."

"Yes, we do."

A cold stab of nervous terror pierced Aragorn's heart in anticipation of the reply to his next question.

"Have you ever…?"

"No," Legolas answered without pause, knowing what his ward was getting at.

"Have you ever considered it?"

"No."

"Not even when you've been starving hungry; it never crossed your mind?"

"No."

"You've never once been tempted?"

This time, Legolas looked down and answered slowly, deliberately, "No. Never."

"And you never would, right?"

"Of course not. No matter how bad things get, I would never resort to doing such a terrible thing."

Aragorn nodded, trying hard to disguise his relief, for he had not been certain that Legolas would really answer in that manner. "I keep thinking…That poor woman. And so many more." Tears fell from his weary eyes again, soaking into Legolas' shirt. "What they did to her…If you hadn't have come for me, they would have…"

"But they didn't. I came. Everything is fine now." As Aragorn nodded, his cries were renewed and Legolas stroked his hair comfortingly. "Those Men were driven by insanity. I will never be as they are." Softly in the light of day, Legolas bent close to his young charge and whispered the assurance he knew Aragorn was craving. "And nor will you. They are weak, immoral, twisted by pain and desperation. In their hearts and minds they are evil, one more creation of the Shadow. But you are not like them. You have goodness in your heart; you will never be like them."

"I still don't understand how people could do that," Aragorn whispered tearfully.

Kindly, Legolas whispered, "I know you don't." He was immensely grateful that Aragorn did not understand the whims of the insane. To understand was to invite madness and above all else Legolas did not want Aragorn to ever experience that kind of depravity.

Still crying softly, Aragorn said, "I'm so sorry, Legolas."

"Shh, it's all alright now."

With nausea rising in his throat again, he choked out, "I can still smell…"

"Try not to think about it." Legolas held the boy close as he cried against him. "Ai, Aragorn, I wish so much that you never had to experience what you have. I have always tried so hard to protect you from it. Perhaps too much."

Wiping at his tears, Aragorn asked thickly, "What do you mean?"

Legolas paused for a long moment, staring intently into the smouldering remains of the fire. How he longed not to have to do this, to let the child live in blissful ignorance for a while longer. And yet he knew that Aragorn at last deserved to know the truth.

Pulling away from the boy – no, _man_, he corrected himself sharply – he said, "I need you to sit up and listen to me carefully. There is something I have to tell you – something I should have told you a very long time ago." Confused though he was, Aragorn did as he was asked without protest, sitting and watching Legolas' face in the pale light of the day as a range of troubled emotions flitted rapidly across his ever-serious features. He started speaking haltingly, reluctantly. "When your father…Just before Arathorn died, he made me swear to protect you."

"I know that," Aragorn interjected softly.

"No. He made me swear that no matter what I was to protect you above all else, because he knew of your importance, knew what you were destined to become."

"Destined?"

"He told me that I had to keep you alive. And that I had to prepare you."

Not liking where this strange conversation was leading, Aragorn asked hesitantly, "Prepare me for what?"

"For what you may someday have to face."

"What? Wait, you're talking about…the training you made me do?"

"No, Aragorn. I think your father meant for me to teach you more than simple swordplay. I was supposed to teach you so much more than fighting skills." He looked down in shame from the young man before him. "A task at which I have been failing terribly."

Shaking his head vehemently, the boy tearfully protested, "You've taught me so much."

"No," Legolas said softly, shaking his head. "I have been neglectful. And I am deeply sorry for that. I confess that I was…I was afraid of what your father had entrusted me with."

Scared? Legolas was speaking of being scared. To Aragorn, Legolas had never seemed afraid of anything. What was it about him, a simple boy who by sheer coincidence had fallen into the lap of the Elf, had frightened the brave Legolas so much? Anxious about what Legolas might say, Aragorn asked in fear, "Am I some kind of…monster?"

Legolas looked up to meet Aragorn's eyes sharply. "Monster? Why would you ask that?"

"Am I?" Aragorn demanded, frustrated that his anger brought tears with it.

The Elf quickly reached forward and encased Aragorn's hand in his own, displaying his sudden confidence to the nervous boy. "You are not a monster," he told him firmly, leaving absolutely no room for doubt. "Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact." Aragorn met Legolas' eyes, which he noticed were now dancing with an almost vivacious light as he explained, "Before your father died he told me of his – and thus your – bloodline, your heritage. Aragorn, you are descended of an ancient and powerful line of Men. The Human blood that runs in your veins is blessed, Aragorn; royal."

The word rang loud and clear in Aragorn's mind and yet he couldn't seem to make any real sense of its meaning. "Royal?" he croaked out.

Of course, his father had told him stories of the kings of old who had ruled over the lands before the Free World had fallen to Shadow. Arathorn had spoken often of great Men who had been hailed as mighty and benevolent leaders, presiding over distinguished courts and commanding vast armies. Aragorn had listened in awe, marvelling that such people could ever have existed in the world of decay in which he had grown up, where the most powerful men he knew of were the commanders of the Ranger army he lived amongst. The disorganised, scattered ranks of the Rangers were a far cry from the images his father had implanted into his mind of the ancient kings.

And yet, for all his stories, Arathorn had never once even eluded to the bloodline of kings to which they were apparently attached.

"I'm a king?" Aragorn asked Legolas quietly after a long while in silence.

"No. There is no Gondor left – as far as I know," Legolas answered him in sombre tones. "The cities fell before even the weakest of the Elven colonies succumbed fully to the Shadow. The Men were besieged and divided by Sauron's armies."

Aragorn shook his head, for some reason greatly saddened by the news of the fall of a world that he hadn't even really known existed just moments before. "So, what does that mean – for me?"

"I don't know for sure. But your father told me the truth for a reason. Can I tell you what I believe?" Aragorn nodded numbly. "I believe that Arathorn ran with the Rangers for so long in order to give you the chance to grow up learning the ways of your people. I also believe he wanted to protect you, to shield you from the eyes of evil and from your…enemies."

"Enemies?" Aragorn asked sharply. He only knew one person now in this whole wide world and he was sat opposite him listening to him laying out his destiny, so how could he possibly have made enemies?

"I think your father had planned to return with you to Gondor and reunite you with your destiny upon the throne. He meant to establish you as king. Had he succeeded, had you and Arathorn been allowed to reunite enough human stragglers who were willing to fight for freedom, you could have proven a great threat to the Dark Lord in Mordor."

"Dark Lord?" the boy repeated in quiet horror.

The world had fallen to the Dark Lord Sauron thirty years ago after twenty long years of war; that was all Aragorn really knew of the oppressor. He did not relish the thought of getting to know any more of him.

Sensing the child's fear, Legolas squeezed Aragorn's hand gently and assured, "That is not for you to worry about right now."

"How can you say that?"

"Because I will not let anything happen to you, Aragorn. I swore to your father that I would protect you at all costs and I will. No matter what."

Nodding, Aragorn wiped at his wet face with his sleeve. "Why are you telling me this now?" he asked shakily.

"You were right before."

"What about?"

"I am a coward."

"Legolas, no. I didn't mean any of what I said."

"It's alright, Aragorn. I am a selfish coward. I've been wandering this same strip of road for so long that I can't even imagine leaving it anymore. I suppose I was…scared. After the fall of Mirkwood it was all I could do and I stuck to it. Then habit became routine and routine became compulsive and I couldn't break it after that." The confession came as a surprise even to him. And yet, he felt oddly liberated by speaking the words he feared so.

"But…" Aragorn started when Legolas seemed to become lost in his own thoughts.

"I know where we have to go now," he told the boy with such confidence that Aragorn felt all his previous fears simply fall away. At last Legolas knew what he had to do.

**OIOI**

Aragorn's mind was buzzing. Even as he walked - after two months, now only with a slight limp - he found it hard to concentrate on where he was placing his feet. Fortunately, Legolas was walking ahead of him so he didn't worry too much. Legolas would not let him fall.

His distraction was understandable. Since Legolas had told him the truth about who he really was and what he was destined to do, the Elf had begun their training again. The moment he had been able to walk, Legolas had unceremoniously thrust a sword into his hand and begun teaching him advanced swordsmanship, far more complex and gruelling than anything he had been teaching before. But more than that, Legolas had also started tutoring him in the lore of Middle Earth, passing on all the knowledge he had gained from his own Elven teachers during his youth in Mirkwood.

Naturally, it had started off with the history of Man. From the first blessed Numenoreans to Gondor and its outlying settlements, through famines, floods and plagues and wars, the Elf missed nothing out. He spoke of alliances between Men and the Elves and the eventual downfall of Aragorn's line through the weakness of Isildur on the battle fields during the War of the Last Alliance and how the realm of Gondor had then passed into stewardship, weakening the kingdom and making the Men easy prey to Sauron in Mordor.

And Aragorn had relished the knowledge, soaking up every last drop Legolas could provide him with. Although the thought of what he was still scared him immensely, he was eager to learn about his history and ancestry.

There was still a lot to process though. Legolas' idea of teaching was blunt and on occasion mind-numbingly detailed; a far cry from his father's fanciful tales.

"So," Aragorn broke the now rare silence that had fallen between them as they walked across muddy ground, "tell me where we're going again."

"To Lothlorien," Legolas answered patiently, having already explained several times before where they were now heading towards.

"Why?"

"To speak with Lady Galadriel."

"Why?"

"Because she is a great seer. She can tell us what to do next."

"What do we need to learn from her?"

"You know what," Legolas snapped. But a moment later, he continued, "The Lady can help us."

"Alright," Aragorn sighed. Legolas may have warmed to him a little over the past couple of months but that didn't mean that he was any less prickly than before. "How long will it take?"

"I don't know."

"I meant how long will it take to reach Lothlorien?"

"I don't know."

Finally, Aragorn looked up at his mentor, concerned. "Do you know where you're going?" he asked flatly, for the first time doubting the Elf. He hadn't even considered before that Legolas wouldn't know the way.

Legolas shrugged. "Roughly."

"Roughly?" Aragorn demanded incredulously, rushing to catch up with the Elf. "What does that mean?"

"Things have changed a lot since I last travelled to the Golden Wood."

"So you are…guessing?"

"An educated guess," Legolas corrected with a smile.

"Educated?"

"Yes."

"But a guess all the same?"

"Aragorn, please; I know where I'm going."

The boy nodded softly, looking down at the ground as he mumbled, "Roughly."

Legolas turned to face him, although there was a small smile on his face. "Would you stop! Have I led us astray so far?"

"I suppose not," Aragorn relented begrudgingly as they started walking again. The words Legolas spoke were true, Aragorn supposed. Despite the Elf's continued reluctance to venture off the familiar safety of the Old Forest Road, he had led Aragorn confidently over the Misty Mountains once the boy had recovered enough to walk. Although he still walked with a slight limp, it was a relief to them both that he had pulled through with relatively little damage in a surprisingly short space of time. In their first week of travelling, Legolas had gone easy on his young charge, stopping more often than they ever had in the past and the Elf had allowed him more rest than he was used to.

Following Legolas' confession to Aragorn about his life and what it would one day prove to be, Aragorn had been quiet; much too quiet for Legolas' liking. And yet the Elf had allowed the silence, not pressing Aragorn for anything. He'd let the boy wallow in confusion and fear until he felt ready to leave it behind him. During those days of silence, Aragorn had surreptitiously watched the Elf watching him. Legolas had seemed like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders; even more tense than usual as he watched Aragorn's continued sulking.

And yet, when Aragorn had broken his silence, telling him that he wanted to learn everything his Elven guardian had to teach, there was a light in Legolas' eyes that Aragorn had never witnessed before. The Elf's whole demeanour had changed then. Even though he seemed afraid to leave the comfortable routine of walking the road, Legolas seemed almost relieved too at finally moving on.

The snow-capped Misty Mountains they had had to cross had been a challenge to both but they had managed quite well, considering. Legolas had been overly anxious the entire time, as if at any minute expecting an attack. He travelled with his knives always to hand, something he'd never done on the Old Forest Road. It had concerned Aragorn at first but when he'd voiced his anxiety, Legolas had simply smiled at him and implored him not to worry.

By now, things had settled down between them. They travelled relentlessly again, stopping only when absolutely necessary. Rarely did Legolas allow them to light a fire anymore. Although some things had changed between them now. Legolas was a lot more relaxed – not exactly chatty but not as dour as he used to be, at any rate – and he had considerably more patience with his young charge than in the past. He had upped Aragorn's training regime, pushing the boy to learn complex, more involved techniques that were more distinctly Elven and fluid than previously. He'd also started to allow the boy to hunt with him, teaching him how to shoot a bow and arrow rather than merely how to make the flights and maintain the bow. It had become oddly comforting to be taught – and indeed to teach – the ways to work the devastated earth to an advantage.

"So, this Lady Galadriel," Aragorn broke the silence, "how exactly can she help me?"

"Us," Legolas corrected, glancing back at the boy. "I am hoping she can tell us what we should do next."

"What should we be doing?"

"That's what we need to ask," Legolas stressed.

"Oh, alright."

Legolas sighed at the dejected reply. "I am sorry, Aragorn, but I don't have any answers yet. I am just as in the dark as you and we need help. Galadriel is the most powerful queen who walks this earth. If anyone knows how to set you on the right path to achieve your potential, it is she."

Aragorn stopped dead in his tracks. "My potential? Wait, you…You mean she'll tell me how I can…"

"Become king, yes."

"But…I don't even…Legolas, no. I cannot be."

Legolas stepped close to the boy, laying his hand on his shoulder. "What did you think we were going to do?" he asked softly. "This is your purpose, Aragorn."

"No."

"It is what your father wanted, what you were born for."

"Legolas, please, we can go back…We don't have to go to Lothlorien."

"Yes, we do."

"I don't want to be a king!" the young man shouted, shrugging Legolas' hands off him.

"Calm down," Legolas soothingly told him. "You don't have to decide anything yet. Speak to the Lady Galadriel, hear what she has to say. That is all I ask."

Swallowing down his panic, Aragorn nodded. He could do that. Once he had spoken to the Elven mystic that Legolas seemed to have so much faith in, then he could wriggle out of this unwanted responsibility and things could go back to normal, just him and Legolas travelling like before.

"Alright," he agreed in a small voice.

"Alright," Legolas smiled in relief. "Come on, we have a few hours before dark," he said, walking onwards again.

Aragorn followed sombrely then said, "Can we keep walking tonight?"

"You're not too tired?"

Really he was tired. His legs ached, his feet were cramped in his boots, his ankle was starting to hurt again. It had been days since he had eaten satisfactorily and he was worn out. And yet, he wanted to keep on the move. That restless energy that drove him onwards raced through him, making him blind to the aches and pains of his body.

So he answered, "No, I'm not tired."

"Alright. As long as you're sure."

Aragorn nodded numbly. "I'm sure," he said quietly, following after Legolas.

As he always did when he felt lost or scared, he discreetly dipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket, his fingers caressing the golden ring his father had given him. It always made him feel better.

**To Be Continued…**


	11. Provider

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has left a review and for your encouragement in getting me out of my writer's block. I am getting back to normal, although it's the most frustrating thing!**

**Here's the next chapter at long last. Apologies for the delay and enjoy.**

**OIOI**

**Chapter 11**

**Provider**

Aragorn was watching Legolas closely as the Elf looked out over the slow-moving, murky water, deep in thought. The boy sat with forced patience by the side of the river, fiddling idly with the rough handle of the dagger Legolas now allowed him to carry all the time.

A moment later, Legolas turned and moved to sit next to him.

"Well?" Aragorn prompted, looking over at his companion expectantly.

Legolas sighed deeply and ran his hands down his face. "I don't know."

"You said you knew a way across."

"There used to be a bridge."

Aragorn looked up and down the river, and stated the obvious, "There's not a bridge now."

"Yes, thank you, I can see that."

"So, what now?"

"We find another way across."

"How?"

Raking his fingers through his hair, Legolas admitted, "I don't know."

"Are you alright?" Aragorn asked with a frown, looking over at the Elf.

"Yes." Legolas just longed to reach Lothlorien. Now that they were close, he was desperate to be back in the Elven community, to get help with the enormous task he'd been left with in the form of Aragorn. He was so close and yet the river now stood in their way. Frustration was making him annoyed.

"We could walk along the bank for a bit, see if there's another bridge," Aragorn suggested, trying to be helpful.

"There isn't," Legolas answered shortly.

"We could at least look…"

"Aragorn," the Elf sighed, exasperated.

"Sorry. I'm only trying to help."

"I know," Legolas groaned, knowing fully well that he shouldn't be snapping at the boy. It wasn't Aragorn's fault that they were stuck. "Alright. Let's go."

"Go where?"

"To walk the river until we can find a way across."

The way Legolas said this, as if it had been his idea all along, frustrated Aragorn to no end and yet he bit his tongue and got up to follow the Elf without comment. For a long time, they followed the path of the river. Aragorn was curious about it; he'd never seen such an enormous mass of water. Legolas, however, barely looked across to the woods that lay beyond the murky grey waters. It seemed to Aragorn that the Elf was almost saddened by the waters.

When Aragorn finally dared to voice this thought to the Elf, Legolas had answered honestly.

"This place has changed a lot since last I was here," he told the young man, his voice carrying a touch of melancholy. "When I last came upon the Anduin it flowed fast and clear. The lands sang of its strength and power. It sustained so many of my kin and brought such joy to so many." He sighed sadly, eyes gazing mistily over the deep, polluted water. "But now…" He looked away with a sombre shake of his head.

"Did you used to come here a lot?"

Legolas smiled then as the memories of the past were brought to the surface. "Relations between our peoples were good – periodically. I came here as an emissary often enough to know the lands well."

"Emissary?" Aragorn asked of the unfamiliar word.

"A political messenger for my home."

"I thought you were a warrior."

"I was many things. My duties varied." Aragorn nodded for Legolas to continue, interested in this rare glimpse into his guardian's past life. "I would come here in the summer whenever I was able, meet with the Galadhrim - the mighty warriors and guardians of the Golden Wood - and we would swim in the river and sing amongst the Mallorn trees. It was wondrous, Aragorn. Beauty unsurpassed. And this Great River was its life source."

Aragorn had never heard such distant melancholy in Legolas' voice before. The Elf had never shown this wistful side of himself before and it brought a sad pang to his heart to hear. He wondered if Legolas had ever spoken of this to another – or for that matter if he had even ever travelled with anyone else. Given his reluctance to take on the guardianship of Aragorn in the first place, he very much doubted it. Was that what made Legolas the way he was – quiet and withdrawn – the fading memories of old haunting his every moment as he travelled dead lands that had once brimmed with vibrant life? Was this what had made the Elf so terribly lonely?

"What's wrong?" Legolas asked, turning when he realised Aragorn had stopped.

Swallowing thickly, Aragorn smiled and assured, "Nothing." He stepped closer to the Elf, who frowned down at him as he continued to stare. But he wasn't going to speak with Legolas about this. Some things he knew would be going too far and Legolas would not abide discussing the past in too much detail, particularly in a personal way.

"What's the matter with you all of a sudden?"

Aragorn shook his head in reply and averted his eyes back to the river, avoiding the query.

"Very well, strange one, let's go."

Legolas led the boy along the river, more than a little disconcerted that Aragorn now walked in sullen silence, seemingly lost in thought. Surprisingly, Legolas had gotten rather used to the man's incessant questioning and chattering over the past couple of months and now in its absence, he found that he actually missed it and hated the silence that replaced it.

That dreadful aching ever-present in his heart was growing worse, and had been doing so since he stepped off the familiar road and blindly headed for Lorien, and he longed for Aragorn's bubbly excitement and insatiable curiosity to distract him from it once more. Too many memories, painfully good memories, came back to him as he looked upon the familiar, tainted though it was by the darkness of the Shadow.

In truth, Legolas considered that this quiet was a bad start to their journey to Lothlorien. He'd hoped – perhaps futilely – to be greeted at the Anduin by the Galadhrim as he had been so many times in the past. But the place he now walked was long dead. His instincts screamed at him to go no further, that he would not find what he searched for here. And yet a small part of his mind desperately sought guidance from someone he had trusted once. Or perhaps he just wanted to believe that those things he missed so much could be with him once again.

Legolas pushed his charge harder than usual, walking along the riverside at as fast a pace as they could manage. Night fell and Aragorn looked up to Legolas, hoping to pause for the night but Legolas looked so intent that he didn't say anything. Sighing in resignation, Aragorn realised that he wasn't going to get any rest that night.

**OIOI**

"Can we stop yet?" Aragorn whined in a childlike manner, stomping behind the Elf.

"Not yet," Legolas replied shortly, not so much as glancing back at his ward.

"But I'm tired."

"Another few minutes and we can stop."

"You said that hours ago."

"Aragorn," Legolas shouted, whirling around to face the boy, anger etched on his features. "I said we would stop soon. Stop complaining and keep moving," he commanded darkly, sounding very much like the discontented Legolas Aragorn vividly remembered from his childhood.

"Sorry," Aragorn mumbled, shuffling his feet forwards after Legolas had turned and started striding forward.

As he walked onwards, Legolas was acutely aware of Aragorn sulkily slinking after him. He tried, at first, to ignore it, not wanting to give into the boy's mood but the constant, overly dramatic sighing from behind him was grating on his nerves and when Aragorn let out a soft moan, Legolas rolled his eyes and stopped short.

"What are you doing?" Aragorn asked as he nearly barrelled straight into the back of the stationary Elf.

"Stopping."

"Oh. Alright then."

Aragorn dumped his bag down on the ground and plopped himself down after it. When Legolas did not copy the action, Aragorn craned his neck to look up at the tall Elf.

"What's wrong?" the young man asked.

"Nothing's wrong," Legolas told him shortly. "I'm going to go hunting."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"It's midmorning and we've been walking all day."

"You're hungry, aren't you?"

"Well, yes but…" Aragorn couldn't help but notice that so far Legolas had not looked him in the eyes once. Surely the Elf was not genuinely upset at his whining.

"Then I'll go get you something to eat."

"Should I come with you?"

"That would rather defeat the purpose of pausing to rest, wouldn't it?" It wasn't said in annoyance but rather vague amusement, which surprised the boy a little. "Stay here. I'll be back soon."

Before Aragorn had a chance to protest, Legolas had strolled off, bow in his hands. Too tired to start worrying about yet another odd change in his guardian, Aragorn lay down on his back and closed his eyes wearily.

He must have been asleep for some time as when he opened his eyes, evening was drawing in and Legolas had joined him once again, obviously having returned from his hunting trip. There was no fire on the go so Aragorn presumed that the hunting had not gone well. The dark look remained on the Elf's face but Aragorn knew he wouldn't be able to fool the Elf into believing that he was still asleep. So he sat up, squinting over at Legolas, who was sat on the ground, methodically sharpening his knives. He did not look up at Aragorn.

"No luck?" the boy asked to break the silence.

"No."

"Alright," Aragorn sighed. Legolas' mood had definitely not improved during his walk. "I'm not hungry anyway."

Legolas exchanged his knife over to his other hand, reached down and picked up a piece of wrapped cloth, which he then tossed to the boy. "Berries," he explained as Aragorn caught it.

Quickly tugging the knot open, Aragorn eagerly tucked into the berries. "Oh, I've starving." Legolas nodded but went back to sharpening his knives. "Do you want some?" Aragorn offered, holding out package, which now contained only a dozen or so berries.

For the first time since Aragorn had woken up, Legolas met Aragorn's eyes and the boy saw something in the blue depths that he'd never seen before and that he did not recognise. Before he could even attempt to make out what it was though, the expression faded into one of gratitude; clearly faked.

"No, thank you," Legolas answered with a seemingly forced smile.

"Aren't you hungry?" Aragorn asked, chewing thoughtfully.

"I've had some already."

This struck Aragorn as strange. Usually Legolas would not eat without him.

"Really?"

"Yes. While you slept," Legolas assured with another, this time more genuine smile. "Finish your food."

Aragorn obediently did as he was told, chewing more thoughtfully on his gathered food now, his eyes fixed upon the slouching form of Legolas. The Elf's face still held that unusual melancholy look, as if lost in a sad, far distant memory. It was starting to frustrate Aragorn because he had never seen such a look in his guardian before yesterday. Dour, miserable, annoyed Legolas he understood all too well but this sad Legolas, he couldn't even begin to fathom. He had no clue how to deal with Legolas when he was like this.

"Are you alright?" Aragorn asked after a while of uncomfortable silence.

"I'm fine," the Elf answered, reaching down and picking up his flask, taking a long swig of water. "Did you sleep well?"

"Really well."

"I'm glad."

Aragorn nodded in distraction. "I'm sorry about earlier. I was just tired."

"How are your feet?" Legolas asked, dodging the comment as if it had never been spoken.

"Excuse me?"

"Earlier you said your feet hurt. Do they feel better now?"

"Oh." In truth, he'd just been petulantly complaining about that so Legolas would consent to stopping to rest for a while. He hadn't really meant it. He was surprised that Legolas had taken his complaints on board and was now seemingly concerned about this mild, common discomfort. "They feel fine now, thank you."

"Good. We should wash in the river when daylight comes, maybe do our clothes too if it's warm enough tomorrow."

"Um, alright," Aragorn agreed with increasing confusion. Legolas often considered it to be too dangerous to stop by the river and unclothe for the length of time it would take to wash their clothing thoroughly.

Legolas nodded and Aragorn watched as he took another long drink from his canteen. He just could not place what exactly had changed in his Elven guardian. Yes, Legolas was in a bad mood – that much was perfectly obvious – but that he was trying so hard not to appear to be in a foul mood was what worried Aragorn. Normally, when Legolas was annoyed at the boy he made positively certain that he knew it.

"Can I have some?" Aragorn asked, nodding toward the flask that Legolas was once more drinking from.

Legolas looked up at him as if in surprise then handed the now almost empty flask to the boy. "Of course."

"Is this from the river?" Aragorn asked as he peered at the water.

"No, the river water is too polluted to drink. There's another, cleaner source nearby. I found it whilst I was out hunting."

Aragorn nodded, drinking what remained of the water. Once he'd had his fill, he looked up and asked, "Do you think the river's safe to bathe in then?"

"Probably not," Legolas replied simply, having already gone back to sharpening his knives.

The boy frowned and pointed out, "So it's not a good idea to wash our clothes in the water either, is it?"

"Of course not. It's far too dangerous here anyway. You should know that."

"But…You just said…" Legolas looked up quizzically at him and Aragorn scoffed, shrugging his shoulders. He wasn't going to argue, it wasn't worth the energy considering he was bound to lose. "Whatever you say," he sighed in defeat but it seemed his guardian had lost all interest.

That dreadful, tense silence that Aragorn despised so much fell between them once more, although as usual it didn't seem to bother Legolas in the least. In fact, the Elf looked so deep in thought that Aragorn wondered if he was even aware of the atmosphere the man felt was engulfing them both.

A while later, Legolas' hand reached out for the canteen of water again, lifting it to his lips. When he tipped the flask all the way up though, only a small dribble of water trickled out.

"Damn," he cursed angrily, startling Aragorn.

"What?"

"We're out of water. Did you finish it off?"

"Sorry." Aragorn shrugged apologetically. "There wasn't much left anyway."

Tossing his knives aside with what Aragorn interpreted to be usually careless anger, Legolas hauled himself to his feet with more effort than his human companion had ever seen before.

"Where are you going?" Aragorn asked, getting up at the same time.

"To get more water."

Aragorn bent down and pulled their second flask out of his own travel bag and offered to the retreating Legolas, "Here, you can have some of mine."

The Elf turned sharply to look at him and frowned. "Where did you get that?" he demanded, trouncing back towards his charge.

"It's been in my bag, where it always is, the whole time."

Reaching the boy, Legolas snatched the flask from Aragorn's hand before taking another long drink. In between gulping down the water, he snapped, "I go out of my way to provide for you and you won't even share your water with me."

"What is the matter with you?" Aragorn demanded, angry at being accused of something so mean.

Legolas drained the flask and raised his eyes to meet Aragorn's, at last having the good grace to look apologetic for his words. Slightly out of breath, Legolas wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"I'm sorry," the Elf finally said, quickly averting his eyes as though in shame.

"Legolas…"

The guardian turned around and bent to snatch up his own abandoned flask then straightened and looked back to Aragorn. "I'll be back in a moment."

"Where are you going now?"

"To refill the flasks."

Aragorn went to follow him, saying, "I'll come with you."

"No, you stay here with the things."

"Well then, I'll go and you stay here," Aragorn offered, going to take the flasks from the Elf.

Legolas, however, took a step backwards, almost as if he was suddenly afraid of his young charge. "I can manage. It'll be getting dark soon anyway and I know where there's a clean source." Stepping away again, Legolas offered the boy a smile, albeit a slightly nervous one. "Don't worry I'll be back before you…"

"Legolas!"

The prince heard Aragorn exclaim his name loudly in panic but for a moment he couldn't for the life of him think of the cause of such an exclamation. Then, as if a delayed reaction, his world suddenly blurred. When it came back into focus, he realised he was now stood being awkwardly propped up by his teenage ward. Feeling a wave of dizziness wash over him, he closed his eyes and tried to fight the unnerving sensation that he was falling from a great height.

Surprisingly, it was Aragorn's voice that brought him back to earth. "Legolas?" the boy cried, grasping Legolas' jacket to keep him from tipping over. "Legolas, what's wrong?"

After taking a steadying breath, Legolas opened his eyes again, pleased to find that the landscape was no longer swaying dizzyingly. Realising that he was still leaning against Aragorn, who had a very worried expression on his face, Legolas straightened himself out slowly, carefully.

"Are you alright?" Aragorn asked anxiously, not letting go of his guardian for fear that he may topple again.

Forcing a shaky smile to his pale lips, Legolas swallowed thickly, his hand remaining conspicuously on Aragorn's shoulder for support. "I'm fine," he answered, pleased by how steady his voice sounded.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing's wrong. You just…just, um, go and…" Unable to keep his train of thought long enough to string a sentence together, Legolas rubbed his forehead, trying to ground himself again.

"Legolas? You're scaring me," Aragorn confessed softly, resting his hand against Legolas' chest, worried that his guardian was going to fall over again; he was once more swaying a little on the spot.

"Sorry. No. I'm fine." Breathing deeply once more, Legolas smiled reassuringly – or at least what he hoped was reassuringly. "Really."

Aragorn nodded, slowly removing his hand. "Are you sure?"

"Uh, of course." As he moved his eyes down to Aragorn's though, the world blurred in front of him again and he felt himself fall once more against Aragorn, who caught him with little effort, having anticipated it this time.

"Legolas!" Aragorn exclaimed in horror.

Gripping the sleeve of Aragorn's jacket to brace himself against falling to his knees, Legolas said in a quaking voice, "I think…maybe I just need..." His concentration span impossibly short, Legolas trailed off.

"Need what?" Aragorn asked desperately, searching for anything to help his apparently ailing guardian.

Blinking slowly, Legolas forced himself to finish, "I just need to sit for a minute."

"Yes, sit." Annoyed at himself for not thinking of that simple solution by himself, Aragorn took the crook of Legolas' arm and helped him to sit on the ground. Crouching down beside the Elf, his gaze firmly on Legolas' face, he asked, "Legolas?" tearfully.

Laying his slightly shaking hand against Aragorn's arm, Legolas smiled gently. "It's alright, Aragorn. I'm fine."

"What is wrong?"

"I just got a little dizzy, that's all."

Truthfully, it was more than that. The dizziness blurring his vision and making his aching stomach churn ominously. Of course, this was not the first time he had experienced this, although he hadn't felt quite so bad for a while now.

The stabbing pain shooting through his stomach was a dead give-away as to the cause.

"What can I do?" Aragorn asked desperately, feeling the need to do something.

Feeling the nausea rising in his throat and worried by the possibility that he may very well start retching in front of his already frightened young charge, Legolas suggested thickly, "Why don't you go and get some more water?"

"Water? Yes, of course. I'll get you some more water." Scrambling up onto his feet, Aragorn started rushing around to pick up the flasks that Legolas had dropped.

"Just go about…"

"Don't worry; I'll find it," Aragorn assured quickly.

"And it's getting dark so…"

"I'll be right back. You just rest." Almost tripping over himself in his haste to do something useful, Aragorn ordered, "Don't move."

Legolas watched as the boy disappeared through the veil of bare trees that lined the bank of the river and, as soon as the man was safely out of sight, Legolas bent forwards, wrapping his arm around his middle, face scrunching up in pain. The queasiness manifested itself a moment later and he brought up a good deal of the water he had drunk earlier.

Tears stung his eyes but fortunately the sickness didn't continue for too long and after a moment, gasping for air, he managed to straighten. Spitting out the bitter taste in his mouth, Legolas then shuffled away from the mess and collapsed to the ground.

Not wanting Aragorn to return and see him in this state, Legolas wiped his eyes and face with the sleeves of his jacket, trying to pull himself together. The last thing he wanted was to panic Aragorn any further. He looked spooked enough as it was. Legolas knew that this 'illness' was not serious though. After weeks with virtually no food, it was only to be expected. That combined with that ever-present deep ache of grief in his chest made him feel utterly miserable and tonight it had all caught up with him. It was his own fault, he supposed. At this time of the year, when the world was all but devoid of any vegetation, thus it became nearly impossible to forage or hunt, Legolas found that it became very difficult to feed one person let alone two and so he had provided all he could for the growing boy in his care, leaving next to nothing for himself. At first it had been easy to bear; he was used to being hungry to the point of starvation, but it seemed that he was finally floored by the lack of nutrition this night.

Of course, he would never let Aragorn know that. The boy didn't need to worry about his health.

"I'm back," Legolas heard Aragorn announce from behind him and he cursed himself for not keeping an eye out for the boy's return.

"Are you alright?" Aragorn asked, coming around to the front of Legolas.

The Elf smiled reassuringly at his compassion and answered, "I'm feeling a lot better already."

Aragorn nodded but he still seemed anxious as he knelt on the ground before his guardian. "I brought you some more water."

"Thank you."

"Legolas?"

The Elf looked up into nervous grey eyes, filled with questions, then held out his hand for Aragorn to take, which the boy did, shifting closer. "I'm fine, Aragorn. I promise." The boy swallowed thickly but nodded. "You lie down and get some sleep; it's nearly dark."

"But you need to rest too."

"I will." Legolas laid his hand against the boy's cheek. "Go lie down. We'll leave in the morning for Lorien; then everything will be fine."

"Alright." Aragorn climbed to his feet and went to dig through their bags. He found their blanket and shook it out before returning to Legolas. "But you're taking the blanket tonight," he insisted.

"I don't need it," Legolas protested, holding up his hand to stop Aragorn from laying it over him.

"Neither do I, so you might as well take it."

"Aragorn…"

"Stop being stubborn," the boy snapped, sounding very much like Legolas himself in his severity. When Legolas did not protest further, Aragorn draped the holey blanket over the Elf.

"As you wish," the Elf sighed in submission.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Aragorn. Sleep well."

But Aragorn did not sleep well. As night fell, he found that he couldn't drift off easily as he usually could. For a long time, he lay with his eyes closed tight, trying to sleep but he found himself straining his hearing, listening out for Legolas. He had never seen his guardian at all unwell before. Legolas was strong, immortal, and untouchable by the ailments that Aragorn himself had suffered over the years and to see him otherwise was downright scary. After all, it had been through illness that his father had died; he didn't want his foster parent to be lost to him also.

Trying to think of ways to help his guardian kept Aragorn up later still. He tried to think back to the last time he himself was ill – last year when he had come down with a cold. He remembered Legolas holding him up when he couldn't lie flat without inducing a coughing fit, laying a damp cloth on his fevered forehead and offering condolences and platitudes that the dreadful feeling would soon pass and all would be well once more. It had not been like their first couple of years together when Legolas had been seemingly terrified whenever Aragorn had become ill with the natural sicknesses of Men. Now the Elf was well-practiced in the art of taking care of the sick human boy.

Aragorn did not think that Legolas would suffer any of that to be done to himself though. And if he was honest with himself, Aragorn would feel horribly uncomfortable even trying.

A shuffling from behind him made Aragorn suddenly freeze, straining his hearing even further. When he heard a very soft, stifled moan and further shuffling, Aragorn sat up and looked over in the dark towards the Elf, who was struggling to stand up.

"Legolas?" the boy asked, squinting to see the Elf. "Where are you going?"

Legolas looked over at him, apparently surprised that the boy was still awake. "Nowhere. Go back to sleep."

The Elf got to his feet, swaying only slightly, but Aragorn did not do as he was told but instead watched. "Do you want me to help you?" he asked.

With a short chuckle, Legolas replied, "No thank you."

"What are you doing?"

"Going to the trees."

"What for?"

In a soft voice, Legolas explained delicately, "I have drunk a lot of water this night, Aragorn." He smiled at the boy's embarrassed silence. "Do you still wish to follow me?"

"No."

"I thought not. I'll be back in a moment."

Legolas walked shakily away from Aragorn, aware of the boy's eyes on him. He was also aware that the boy had been listening out for him all night, so he had remained silent, hoping to give the impression that he was peacefully asleep; that is until the call of nature became impossible to ignore.

Although still feeling a little light-headed, Legolas did feel a lot better than before. He could at least stand up on his own, which he had been reluctant to do earlier for fear of failure. But, luckily, he was now just about able to walk steadily.

Walking over to the line of barren trees, Legolas relieved his full bladder then leaned back against the trunk of one of the sad-looking trees. He felt nothing from these bare trees, not even pain. They were completely dead and although he had felt it hundreds of times before, the silence still hurt him, for he loved the trees above all and would have given anything to hear them sing to him one last time.

Taking a deep breath, Legolas bowed his head. It wasn't simply the lack of food that was getting to him. It was this place also. Even here, on the very edge of Lothlorien, there were too many memories that made his heart ache in his chest even more; even to the point where he could think of nothing else. He wondered if telling Aragorn this would make him more or less worried. But the point was moot, as he didn't have the heart to even focus his own mind on the past, let alone speak of it to another. Besides, the boy didn't need to hear Legolas' burdens. What with the revelations about his own future, Aragorn had enough on his mind. No, he couldn't ease Aragorn's worries by telling the truth.

Realising that the boy would soon be worrying about him, Legolas pushed himself wearily away from the empty shell of the tree he'd been leant against and returned to their campsite, thinking that perhaps he would be able to get some sleep this night after all. When he returned, he found that Aragorn had lain back down and he went to face him to find that the boy had fallen asleep in his absence.

Legolas couldn't help but smile softly. He picked up the blanket that Aragorn had forced him to take earlier and instead draped the thin material over the thin frame of his ward.

In the deep darkness, Legolas sighed heavily as he sat near the child under his care. Tomorrow would be a brand new start and he was determined to reach Lothlorien's forest before another night fell.

**To Be Continued…**


	12. In The Land Of Blossoms Dreaming

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed. Here's the next chapter for you.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 12 - In The Land of Blossoms Dreaming**

"Aragorn. Get up." A voice called to him but Aragorn snuggled further down into the warmth of the blanket shrouded. "Aragorn!"

"Go away," the boy grumbled, his voice muffled by fabric. He was too tired for this. Besides, it was too early to wake up yet. A few more minutes would surely not hurt.

At this reply hand gripped Aragorn's shoulder and shook him roughly. "Come on. Up. Now."

Opening his eyes to dull daylight, which nevertheless made his head ache, Aragorn blinked blearily, trying to remember when exactly he had fallen asleep the night before for he couldn't immediately recall. Then he did remember…Legolas. "Legolas?" he exclaimed, sitting up abruptly and looking about for the Elf who was no longer by his side as he would have expected.

"Over here," Legolas called, attracting Aragorn's attention over to the river.

The boy got up, forgetting his fatigue, and trotted over to Legolas. "What are you doing?"

"Fixing this," the Elf answered, nodding to the small boat that was bobbing on the muddy waters of the Anduin.

"What is that?"

"It's a boat," Legolas explained with a smile.

Rolling his eyes, Aragorn said, "I can see that. Where did it come from?"

"I walked the riverbank earlier this morning and found it tied to a tree a little way down. It didn't need too much repairing. At the very least it'll get us across the river."

"Oh. When did you have time to do this?"

Pressing his hand as hard as he could down onto the bottom of the boat to check that there were no leaks, Legolas replied, "I got up early. I thought I'd see what I could do with this. Turns out it's not too bad at all."

"Good." Aragorn tried to peer around Legolas to see his face, which was cast downwards and partially hidden by a curtain of dirty blonde hair. Rather reluctantly he asked, "How are you feeling today?"

Legolas turned to face his ward with a genuine, placating smile. "I am fine, thank you, Aragorn." When he noticed the boy's slightly disbelieving look at this assurance, he moved away from his dawn project and laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, squeezing tightly. "Honestly, Aragorn; I was merely tired last night. Nothing is wrong with me. I don't want you worrying on it anymore, understand?"

"Yes. As long as you are sure that you're alright."

"I am positive." Legolas smiled down reassuringly at him then clapped him roughly on the back, saying, "Go pack up our things then we can get going."

Obediently, Aragorn wandered slowly back over to their tiny campsite and started stuffing the blanket and the two now full canteens back into their bags. Out of the corner of his eye, he continued to surreptitiously watch the Elf, who remained by the riverside, ensuring the boat was entirely safe before casting off. Certainly, Legolas looked better this morning than he had looked the night before, and yet there still seemed to be something off about his demeanour, something that Aragorn could not quite place.

"Aragorn, come on," Legolas called over to him impatiently.

With a heavy sigh, Aragorn pulled the two bags over his shoulders and stomped over to the riverbank.

"Get in," the Elf told him and he looked sceptically at the boat bobbing on the water. "It is perfectly sound."

Despite his nerves about sailing on the choppy waters, Aragorn didn't doubt that Legolas had made certain that the small boat was safe to travel in before he allowed his ward to set foot on it. He was positive that his guardian would do nothing to endanger him. So, accepting Legolas' hand in helping him board, he climbed awkwardly into the small, disconcertingly rocking vessel. Sitting down proved somewhat more of a challenge in the confined wooden space that moved whenever he made so much as a tiny movement himself and he gripped the sides as if to keep it from tipping. When he looked up at Legolas for reassurance, the Elf was grinning at him in amusement.

"What?" Aragorn demanded angrily.

"Nothing. You have never been in a boat before?"

"Obviously not." Legolas chuckled at him again, reaching for the tiny length of frayed rope that tethered the boat to the shore. "Stop laughing," Aragorn snapped grumpily as Legolas stepped effortlessly onto the boat. The boy's hands shot out to grip the sides again though as it dipped slightly in the river.

Still standing with complete ease and reaching for the long stick he planned to use as a paddle, Legolas laid one hand over his heart, and straightening out his features, said, "My apologies. Hold on tight."

"You're not funny," the boy told him in a dour tone even though he did indeed grab the edges of the boat for security.

"I think I'm a little funny," the Elf flashed him a smile.

The boat ride across the choppy, contaminated Anduin was short but it seemed impossibly perilous to the boy, who had never sailed on any body of water before. He didn't like the sensation at all; the way the small, seemingly ill-constructed boat swayed in the current as Legolas guided it confidently across the width of the Anduin, or the way it tipped dangerously at even the slightest movements of its occupants, or the small puddle of water that had formed disconcertingly at the bottom of the boat, threatening a leak at any moment.

When they reached the other side of the Great River, Aragorn gratefully scrambled out of the vessel before his guardian even had chance to tell him to disembark. He was rather amazed that it had served them so faithfully despite all expectations to the contrary. He had, at several points, been utterly convinced that the boat would spring a leak and sink halfway across the murky waters.

"That wasn't so terrible, was it?" Legolas teased as he dragged the boat up onto the slanted riverbank.

"No. Let's not ever do it again."

At this, Legolas just chuckled and Aragorn wondered at yet another change in the variable emotions of the Elf appointed as his guardian. He didn't think he'd ever heard Legolas laugh as much in his presence as he had done this morning. It was a refreshing change from the downcast, serious Elf he'd come to know.

After salvaging the short length of rope and hiding the boat just in case they had cause to use it again, Legolas led the boy away from the fast-flowing, polluted River Anduin. Once again, Legolas had reverted back to his usual, quiet, withdrawn self. More worrying than that though, he now seemed wary.

After a few minutes walking they moved into what, Legolas recognised with difficulty, had once been the great and beautiful golden forest of Lothlorien. Last time he had walked these paths, the forest had been radiant with luscious greenery untouched by Shadow; trees singing with the sheer joy of the life running through them and wandering amongst them and excitement at the presence of one of the visiting Woodland Elves – Prince of the Woodland Elves, no less - amidst their boughs. Last time, he had been greeted by the friendly, smiling faces of the well-trained Galadhrim and his old friend, and March Warden of the forest, Haldir. The vast landscape had consisted of the vivid green, glittering gold and ethereal silver of the Mallorn trees, the sun had beamed down on them and the wind had sung to him through the rustling leaves.

But now, as his thinly booted feet cracked the dried-out bracken littering the gently sloped ground, the exiled prince saw only death. The once magnificent trees, some older even than those Elves who had once danced among them and inhabited their high branches, had been stripped bare, their trunks no longer shining silver but rather a sad, dull grey, scratched and torn by the unmistakable dark presence of the Enemy. No luscious greenery remained in their canopies, the bare branches clawing ominously at the heavily clouded sky. Legolas could hear no song from them anymore, not even desperate wails of pain and despair akin to those he had heard in the dying moments of his homeland. These were dead, empty husks with no trace of spirit left within them.

It would have saddened him had he not been braced for it. After all, by now, the deathly silence of the world around him should have been more natural to him than the singing of the earth.

Quite the opposite to the Elf, Aragorn looked about himself in unconcealed wonder. They may have been dead, but the trees were the biggest and most impressive he had ever seen in his life.

"I have never seen anything like this," the boy breathed, concentrating more on the towering trunks than where he was putting his feet and he very nearly ran into Legolas twice in his distraction. "Have you ever seen anything like this?"

"No," Legolas mused darkly, cautiously looking around the decimated trees as he walked.

Something was definitely wrong here. And yet he didn't feel the need to draw out his weapons. Thus he did not believe the threat to be coming from Orcs or the rabid Wild Men they had encountered twice before on their travels. But he remained on edge.

"Legolas, where exactly are we going?"

"To find the Lady Galadriel."

Aragorn nodded, but at the same time, asked, "Is Lothlorien very big?"

"If she is still here then she will be in Caras Galadhon, the main city. We'll head there first."

"Do you know where it is?"

A small smile came to Legolas' pale lips and he glanced over at the boy. "Have I ever gotten you lost before?"

"Yes."

"Do not fear. I know where we're going."

The silver trees may have been different but fortunately the basic landscape had not changed too drastically in the wake of the War or with the passage of time. He recognised the gently sloping paths that would lead to the city in the centred in the heart of the great forest. Mostly the paths had become hidden over time but Legolas knew the way well enough not to need a walkway.

They travelled constantly throughout the day and Legolas made them carry on through the night as well. By the pale light of dawn, Aragorn found himself looking upon even greater trees, taller than anything he had ever imagined.

Breathing a sigh of amazement, Aragorn turned awed, dark eyes toward Legolas, who was simply squinting up at the stripped, naked trees. For some unfathomable reason, the Elf had half expected the guardians of the ancient city to have withstood the ravages of the Orcs and time. And yet it seemed that they had fared no better than any other on Middle Earth in the wake of the War.

"This way," Legolas said in a soft voice, leading his young charge through what had once been the city's defences.

Nothing challenged them as they entered Caras Galadhon. No silent shadows clad in the formal green-brown uniform of Lothlorien leapt down at them from atop the naked trees' branches, bows at the ready, demanding to know their purpose in entering the home of the Lady of Light. Legolas was surprised, however, to find that the trees that made up the vast city of Caras Galadhon still held in their boughs the remains of the homes of the people of Lorien. The place seemed deserted, however. There was no gentle tune on the breeze, none of the light-hearted singing that the residents of Lothlorien adored so much. It was completely still and quiet. Not even a slight breeze waved over the city. It was quite eerie to behold.

"Come on," the Elf prompted Aragorn, who had moved closer to his guardian and was now stood at Legolas' side, also chilled by the quiet.

As they walked through the ruined city, Aragorn followed Legolas closely. He didn't like the feel of this place at all, he realised, now that the initial awe had worn off. Everything was much too quiet. Not even the gentle rumbling from Mordor, which permeated the thick air wherever else they had been so far, could be heard amongst the towering trees.

Legolas nonetheless walked confidently past empty homes positioned high in the once perceived safety of the trees, heading quickly now for his intended destination.

When he reached what he knew to be roughly the mid-point of the city, Legolas came to a stop at the base of a simply massive tree, by far more ancient than any other in the Golden Wood.

"This way," the Elf instructed in a hushed voice, not even looking at the boy as he led him around the base of the enormous trunk towards a high, dark staircase that spiralled all the way up the side of the dull grey trunk.

"Up there?" Aragorn asked anxiously, glancing upwards, not relishing the thought of climbing up the rickety structure.

"The Lady Galadriel resides at the very top – the highest point in the city," Legolas explained flippantly, already starting to ascend.

Looking with an uncertain frown down at the wooden steps, some of which were clearly cracked, Aragorn asked, "Wait. Are you sure it's safe?"

"Quite sure. This is Elven engineering, Aragorn, built to withstand the test of time; it won't…" Before he could go any further in his easy reassurance, the step he trod on fell apart, tumbling a couple of feet to the ground close to where Aragorn still stood. Gripping the warped railing to regain his momentarily lost balance, Legolas looked down sheepishly at the boy, who was now glaring back at him, his arms crossed over his chest in a very 'I-told-you-so' manner.

"Elven engineering?" he asked dryly of his guardian

"Perhaps we should take it slowly," Legolas conceded with a short nod of his head.

"Mm. Very slowly," Aragorn agreed, gripping the railing tightly and stepping only where Legolas had already trod to reduce the likelihood of plummeting to his death.

Progress was slow as they ascended the spiralling staircase. The steps mostly held out, only one or two falling when Legolas gingerly tested them with his foot before treading on them properly. Aragorn stayed close to his guardian, watching tensely Legolas' every movement so he could copy it exactly.

By the time they reached the top platform, Aragorn's nerves were almost ripped to shreds and he breathed a loud sigh of sheer relief that they had not both fallen to their deaths traversing the ancient and crumbling staircase, which Elven or not was a death trap now.

Now safely on the landing, Legolas tossed his ward back an 'I-told-you-so' look, which the boy scowled at, making Legolas stifle a laugh. Then, ignoring the scathing gaze his Human charge had pinned on him, Legolas walked slowly across the creaky wooden boards towards an open doorway on the other side of the platform.

Trying desperately not to look down through the gaps in the wood at the ground far below him, Aragorn followed Legolas. He kept close to the railings that now acted as the only barrier from the huge drop, just in case one of the precarious boards fell away from under his feet.

"Be careful," he warned Legolas in a quiet voice laced with fear.

Walking with irritating boldness across the centre of the landing, Legolas glanced back at him and smiled calmly. Apparently, the Elf wasn't in the least bit worried, although for a change this fact did nothing to ease Aragorn's fears.

"Afraid of heights, too?" Legolas asked in a normal voice. "Add that to the list along with sailing."

"I am not afraid of the height. I'm afraid of falling from the height," Aragorn stressed. Legolas simply nodded in all serious, which in itself was mocking, and continued towards the doorway. "And I don't think it's entirely unreasonable given the circumstances."

"Calm down; you're not going to fall."

Doing his best to make himself believe Legolas' words and follow his trusted mentor's instructions, Aragorn kept his gaze levelled on the doorway ahead of them rather than on the ground far beneath him.

Because of his boldness and, perhaps foolish, continuing confidence in Elven structures, Legolas reached the door first and stepped inside the next room. Not keen on being left on his own to face his possible demise at the hands of gravity, Aragorn hurried after him, only to be met with more rotting wood, this time forming a long, covered hallway. It was dark under the wooded canopy but Aragorn was able to see that Legolas was already halfway along the structure.

As he walked quickly after the Elf, Aragorn kept his body tensed, ready for the fall. Cobwebs hung from the gently vaulted ceiling and tangled in his hair, startling him, and he swiped them away in disgust.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of spiders too?" Legolas' voice echoed tauntingly along the corridor.

"No," Aragorn snapped back in annoyance, even as he continued in his struggle to slap the webs off his sleeves.

He heard Legolas chuckle softly, tensely, and wished he could have thought up a better response to the jibe.

When he looked up again though, satisfied that he was not crawling with spiders, Legolas was standing in the room beyond, dull light casting an almost ghostly glow over him.

"Come on," the Elf encouraged, not bothering to turn. "It's perfectly safe."

Aragorn hurried over to where Legolas was stood in what appeared to be merely an antechamber, this place once more open to the elements – although this time obviously by design rather than by the ravages of time. To one side of them stood a set of high, intricately carved and decorated double doors, one of which stood at an odd, crooked angle, having fallen off its hinges long ago.

"The throne room," Legolas explained, nodding towards the broken doors.

As the Elf went to move forward though, Aragorn snatched the sleeve of his jacket, saying in a soft voice, "Are you sure it's safe?"

"I believe evil once blew through this city long ago, but it failed to linger here. We are safe, I think."

"Great. After you," the boy offered, extending his arm in the direction of the broken doors in a gesture of mock polite invitation.

Legolas cast him a wry glance from the corner of his eye and walked over to the door, reaching out to turn the doorknob. As he did so, the broken panel fell out, slamming to the floor with an echoing bang, sending plumes of dust billowing upwards, engulfing the two of them.

Aragorn startled at the loud noise but Legolas didn't even wait for the dust to settle before stepping over the fallen door and into the throne room where the king and queen of Lorien spent most of their days when Lothlorien was peaceful and golden.

The room, like everything else they had come across so far, differed greatly from his last, admittedly now a little faded, memory of it. Once, bright, silver light had shone through the white-walled room, beaming through the windows; now not even the dull light of a typical post-War day crept through the cracks in the boarded-up windows.

Clearly, the city had braced itself for the inevitable onslaught of Orc attackers. As they'd walked through the main grouping of houses of Caras Galadhon, Legolas had noticed that many of the doors and windows of the vacant properties had been panelled up. After decades standing untouched in the wake of its abandonment by the Elves, Lorien was no longer the place of wonder that Legolas had visited in his childhood, it was as every other place now. Dead.

Confirming his worst fears, the two silver thrones upon which Galadriel and her husband Celeborn had once ruled sat cold and empty, covered in years of dust, the silver wood cracked and warped. No one had sat here for a long time.

Legolas ascended the half a dozen steps up to the twin thrones and trailed one thin finger over the arm rest. Resigned to the fact that the Lady of Light was no longer here, Legolas turned on the spot, looking about the sizeable room.

Off to one side of the hall hung a long, tattered curtain and the Elf's keen eyes picked up on something behind it, the relief just about visible through the faded, tatty fabric. Curiosity compelled him forwards and he swept the curtain aside.

The cry that Aragorn gave startled Legolas more than the sight that greeted him behind the drapery. His head snapped towards the young boy who was now stood close to him, a horrified look etched onto his pale face. Legolas laid his hand on his startled young ward's shoulder in reassurance before returning his grim gaze back to the skeleton that still hung from one of the beams by a length of silver Elvish rope.

Legolas sighed sadly, recognising the emblem of the Galadhrim, guards of the Golden Wood, emblazoned on the front of the tattered tunic. This was a soldier.

"Orcs didn't do this, did they?" Aragorn asked innocently, quietly, never having seen this kind of death before.

"No, they did not."

"Then what…?"

"He probably felt he had no other choice," Legolas told him distractedly as he pulled a knife from the bag he carried and reached up on tiptoe to cut the rope from which the tragic Elf was hanging.

"What are you doing?" Aragorn asked as the body dropped to the dusty floor with a sickening cracking noise and a cloud of dust.

Pulling the rope from around the broken, skeletal neck, Legolas told him, "We can use this." As he then proceeded to check the Elf for weapons, which unfortunately were absent, he told his charge, "Give me a hand."

Aragorn busied himself with winding up the length of rope into a neat coil as Legolas coldly stripped the long dead Elf of his clothes, hoping they could salvage something of use from the guard's scant personal belongings. He tried to avoid focusing on the gruesome task his mentor was performing at his side, performing it seemed without any hint of emotion. It was at times like this that he became almost frightened of Legolas. He couldn't imagine his true father, Arathorn, ever doing anything quite so callous. His father would have mourned the passing of a member of his kin. Aragorn himself had been to countless 'funerals' during his time with the Rangers of the North where they honoured their fallen soldiers - not that he really remembered much; he'd been so young when he'd left the gallant men.

Finished with his morbid task, Legolas stood up and backed away from the stripped corpse.

"Let's go," he told the boy, who'd by now finished winding up the rope.

"Wait. Shouldn't we…?" Aragorn nodded toward the desiccated body.

Following Aragorn's gaze, Legolas shrugged. "Should we what?"

"You know, bury him or…?"

His face morphing from curious to unreadable in an instant, Legolas shook his head. "We don't have time to hang about. Now come on."

Before Aragorn could speak again, Legolas had left his side after casting a discreet sad look back at the body.

How Legolas could feel nothing at this tragic life ended, Aragorn didn't know. And it was not like they really didn't have the time. They had nothing but endless time on their hands with nothing now to aim for.

However, having no other choice, he reluctantly trailed after Legolas. The Elf led him back along the corridor and they proceeded to hurriedly explore the tree home of the Lord and Lady of Imladris. The Elf remained in complete silence as he checked each of the empty rooms. Only the upper level went unexplored as the staircase leading up to it had completely fallen to pieces over time and even Legolas would not dare to try to ascend further.

Once they had exhausted their search of the house of the rulers of Lothlorien, Legolas led his sulking young charge back down the rickety staircase to the forest floor.

"What now?" Aragorn finally broke the thick silence.

Without looking down at the boy, Legolas walked off and mumbled, "This way."

Rolling his eyes in exasperation at the Elf's once more dour mood, Aragorn followed.

Legolas led him through the trees, following, it seemed, some kind of path that Aragorn could not see. He longed to break the awful silence that had descended between them since the throne room, to pry another joke from the stern Elf, but Legolas stared straight ahead as he walked, not paying any attention at all to his uncomfortable young companion.

When they reached a small clearing littered only with a couple of fallen trees, Legolas stopped and looked around as though searching for something. Aragorn wanted to ask what but Legolas seemed so deep in concentration that he didn't like to disturb him from his thoughts.

Legolas then suddenly walked over to a tall stone plinth, covered in dirt and moss. He ran his fingers almost tenderly over the cold stone and Aragorn noticed that he wore a sad look once more upon his face.

"Legolas? Are you…?"

Stepping back away from the plinth, Legolas said shortly, "Let's go."

"Um, alright." The Elf strode away, the firm look replacing sadness again as he stared straight ahead of him, not even so much as glancing from his path. "Where are we going?" Aragorn asked as he jogged to keep up with the Elf's striding pace.

"To find somewhere to rest."

"Oh. But it's still early; shouldn't we keep searching for Galadriel?"

"No."

Confused, Aragorn asked, "Why not?"

"She's not here."

"What?" the boy exclaimed, hurrying to catch up with his Elven guardian so he could further demand an explanation. "What do you mean she's not here? We came all this way." Legolas did not respond to him, just continued walking, his eyes now scanning the houses built in the trees for a suitably intact place to stay for the night. "Hold on a minute," Aragorn called, grabbing the sleeve of the Elf's jacket to bring him to a halt and Legolas finally did stop at the imploring gesture. "Maybe they're living somewhere else in the city – or just another part of Lothlorien," Aragorn suggested in near desperation.

"She's not."

"How can you be so sure?"

Legolas suddenly turned on the boy and grabbed both his arms in a tight grip. "Close your eyes." At Aragorn's confused look, the Elf demanded, "Close your eyes." This time, Aragorn did as he was told, his eyelids fluttering shut. "Now," Legolas started in a softer voice after giving his ward a minute to adjust, "what do you feel?"

"Feel? Uh, nothing," Aragorn shrugged.

"Exactly."

Aragorn opened his eyes again, frowning; he did not understand the point of the exercise. "What does that mean?"

"Even humans should be able to feel it, although perhaps not so blatantly as the Firstborn; the presence of the enchantment. It once protected the borders of the wood and those who lived within them. This land has been laid to waste." Legolas sighed heavily, letting his hands fall from Aragorn's arms, dropping to his sides wearily. In a softer voice, he said, "There is no hint of magic left here anymore. They're gone."

Silenced by the sad words from his guardian, Aragorn nodded in understanding. A sudden chill made him shudder and he looked up to Legolas.

"So what do we do now?"

"Fine somewhere to rest for the night."

"That's not what I meant. What are we going to do after tonight? Do we keep searching for her?" Aragorn asked as they started walking again, this time with considerably less urgency.

It took Legolas a long time to come up with the most worrying infuriating answer Aragorn thought possible. "I don't know."

The boy knew that tone so well that he kept quiet despite the multiple questions now running through his head, not to mention all the complaints that sprung to mind. He followed behind his guardian at a safe distance, absorbed in his own thoughts. So much so that when Legolas stopped he carried on walking and Legolas had to call him back.

"Here?" Aragorn asked, looking up into the thick branches, on which was a flet with a real house on top that actually looked habitable.

"As good as any."

Not the best criteria, Aragorn thought, but he nodded and said, "Alright," nonetheless.

Legolas nodded in return and started up the ladder, this one fortunately nowhere near as unstable as the previous one they'd climbed, although perhaps a little more awkward given that it went straight up rather than spiralling gently up the trunk.

The home was boarded up like all the others; they had to kick the door down to gain entrance it was so tightly locked up, which actually proved good for them as the inside of the place was well-protected from the elements and any potential intruders and so had remained in good condition. Legolas looked briefly around. It was small but had one bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen and sitting room; more than Aragorn had ever seen before. Whilst Legolas walked around with caution, the boy went in amazement. He had never seen inside a real home before. It was utterly fascinating to him.

Deciding that the place was both suitable for their needs and safe, Legolas laid his bags on the filthy couch in the sitting room and Aragorn followed suit.

"Did you used to live in a place like this?" Aragorn asked curiously.

"No," the Elf answered bluntly, turning his back on the boy, not leaving any room for further questions. Indeed this small flet was a far cry from where he had grown up in the palace of Mirkwood. However, this was still by far the best place he'd stayed in for years.

"Have a look around, see if you can find any food," Legolas told the silenced boy. He didn't think he would get anywhere near that lucky but it was worth a try.

"Fine." Aragorn decided to give up on making conversation with the once more dour Elf and set about pulling open the doors in the small kitchen area, searching the multiple drawers and cupboards for anything that might be considered edible. Mostly they contained only a selection of utensils that Aragorn had never seen before and could not fathom the use of. There were a few wooden storage jars sat on the counters but when Aragorn opened them they were either completely empty or contained substances that smelled so awful that they made him gag. "There's nothing here," Aragorn told Legolas in disappointment as he turned a metal cooking pot experimentally over in his hands – he'd never seen one before.

"Check in the top cupboards or look for a larder," Legolas responded, having returned from a second look around the house.

"Larder?"

Sighing deeply in impatience despite the fact that he knew that Aragorn could have no way of knowing the word or what it meant, Legolas strode into the kitchen to join his ward, glanced around and then tugged open a full-sized door revealing several shelves stacked with food.

"Larder," Legolas told him in explanation. "Look through the containers and packages, see if there's anything we can eat."

Moving into the place Legolas had just vacated, Aragorn scanned the shelves. Several more storage containers lined them and there were two sacks laid on the floor, which smelled absolutely rotten so Aragorn decided that he wouldn't even investigate them. However, as per Legolas' instruction, he pulled the lids off the jars and searched thoroughly for something resembling food.

The first few he tried were empty, their contents probably having decomposed long ago. A long, deep wooden chest stored at the very back of the cobweb-adorned cupboard was so heavy that Aragorn could hardly lift it. Taking this as a good sign, Aragorn heaved the box off the shelf and took it to the counter where it slapped down with a loud knock, dust shooting up into Aragorn's face and making him cough.

Waving his hand before his face to clear the air, Aragorn then prised the lid off to reveal the contents.

Inside were at least twenty smaller packages with brown leaf wrappers protecting whatever was inside them. When Aragorn went to pick one up, the leaves he touched even with light fingers crumbled. Brushing the flaked pieces aside, Aragorn's eyes widened when he saw completely intact, untouched by the usual decomposition after so many years, sticks of what looked to be some kind of bread.

Excitement at his find bubbled in his chest and he called out loud Legolas' name as he'd noticed his guardian had disappeared from sight again. At the boy's shout though, he came running back in.

"What? What's wrong?" the Elf demanded, looking in panic around the room for whatever had made his charge yell.

"Look what I found," Aragorn grinned, apparently not noticing the terror that had been momentarily plastered on Legolas' face when he feared the boy was in trouble. "Food!" the boy grinned obliviously, holding up one of the wafers for Legolas to see.

Taking a composing breath, Legolas stepped over to the excited teenager to look at what he had found.

"Huh," he exclaimed, taking the wafer from Aragorn's hand. "Lembas. Long-lasting and very filling."

"It lasted all these years?"

"Sealed in a container, wrapped in Mallorn leaves, yes. Elven soldiers take it with them when they're forced away from home for a long time."

"Does it taste good?" Aragorn wondered, leaning down to sniff the box.

"Of course."

Lifting out some of the packets, Aragorn complained, "Some of them are mouldy."

"Salvage what you can. Throw the rest away; it's useless to us anyway."

"This is good though, right? This can last us a while," the boy enthused.

"Yes," Legolas smiled thinly, walking towards the front door.

"Where are you going?"

"To collect some wood." Legolas nodded toward the stove in the kitchen. "We can be warm tonight."

"I am starting to really like Lothlorien," Aragorn laughed brightly.

Legolas couldn't help but smile in return; the boy's good mood was infectious and he found the grim despondence he'd felt since first setting foot within Lothlorien's shattered borders at last beginning to soften. True, Lady Galadriel, with her immense power to protect and defend, no longer resided within this forest, but perhaps this visit wouldn't be a complete waste of time after all. At the very least it was a chance to rejuvenate for the monumental task that lay ahead of them.

**To Be Continued…**


	13. Ghosts

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 13**

**Ghosts**

Before wandering off into the forest proper to collect firewood, Legolas decided that exploration of some of the other houses up in the nearby trees was in order, hoping that maybe they might hold more that could be valuable to the two travellers. Some lay completely in ruins; empty wrecks, shells where nothing could survive unscathed, but others remained reasonably untouched by Evil or time. He climbed up the first ladder without trepidation – he knew instinctively that no evil lingered here that could endanger them.

The monsters that Sauron sent to ravage the Elven lands had long ago abandoned Lothlorien. With no power remaining in its woods with the removal of the Lady of Light, the comparatively small Elven kingdom would have been all but worthless to the armies of Shadow once its few treasures had been plundered. Once the magically defended borders had been breached, the Evil would have swept through, mercilessly devastating and destroying everything they touched as they went by but they had obviously not felt the need to set up any kind of base here. With the mighty stronghold of Dol Guldur just over the Great River in Mirkwood, it would have been pointless to post troops in the Golden Wood and waste precious resources on a dead and worthless land.

It saddened Legolas to know that seemingly so little effort had been put in by the Shadow to eradicating the splendid kingdom of the Noldor queen and Sindar king; such a meaningless loss of an Elven race. And yet it seemed that the Orcs had spared very little as they had sacked the forest. The ground, which was once carpeted in lush green grass, was now all but bare, scorched by fire at some point in the past and never allowed to regrow due to a pitiful lack of sunlight. The magnificent Mallorn trees had been stripped of their silver bark; their exposed, thick trunks hacked at by crude Orkish weapons until cold metal had killed the spirit inside.

Legolas could so easily imagine their pain, could almost feel their terror and hear the echo of the cries Lorien's inhabitants had heard screeching through the forest as their beloved home was ravaged by the Darkness. Closing his eyes as he briefly paused in between looking up into the houses for supplies, Legolas laid the palm of his hand against the trunk of one tall tree.

Once, these great trees would have sung with joyous abandon to the Prince of Mirkwood but now he heard nothing but eerie silence. Not even a vague ring of the anguish they must have endured in their final years remained behind. Just dead quiet. It was more chilling to Legolas than the shrill crying he had heard from his own forest as it burned.

"I am sorry, my friends," he breathed in whispered Elvish, stepping back away from the trunk.

This forest could offer Legolas' aching heart no more relief. It was long dead; unable to help even itself, so it had no chance of soothing the Elf's pain. Everything in Lothlorien – and seemingly everywhere else on Arda - was now rotten to the very core, the evil of the Shadow having seeped into every single thing that had once been living and joyous. The Orcs had blasted through this land, slashing and burning until nothing recognisable remained.

The aching in Legolas' heart pulsed in sympathy and he raised his hand to his chest in pain. There was no comfort Legolas could offer either these dead trees or himself so he carried onwards along the path, searching for something much more earth-bound, more tangible – supplies.

The majority of houses he searched had been stripped bare during the siege on Lorien and held nothing of use or interest to him. A couple though, held some rather gruesome reminders of the horrors that had undoubtedly occurred in the Golden Wood. As he looked around in one large home, high in the bare branches, he was startled to find a couple of adult skeletons laid side by side on a huge four-poster bed, as if they had one day laid down and simply ceased to live, perhaps believing that death would be more merciful.

Saddened by the pitiful sight, Legolas circled around to the other side of the bed to find a now empty medicine bottle lying on the dust-covered wooden floor. So in a way they had indeed gone to sleep and simply died in peace. Probably feeling they had no other choice in the wake of the onslaught of Shadow, they had each taken a lethal dose of whatever poison they had had to hand in their house, laid down together in bed and gone to sleep, safe from the terrors being inflicted upon their kin.

Ruthlessly pushing down his sympathies for these poor people, who were far beyond aid now anyway, Legolas reached over them and unwound the blanket that was entwined around their skeletal legs, trying not to focus on the task at hand. He shook out the dust, coming to the conclusion that after a thorough wash it would be perfectly alright for his and Aragorn's uses.

Another couple of houses he briefly looked in also contained the corpses of their inhabitants but he passed all these by without rifling for supplies, having no desire to breathe in the scent of any more death. These ill-fated Elves could rest now in peace without him disturbing their graves.

In one home he checked, he was pleased to discover a wardrobe full of clothes. Uniforms of a warrior of Lorien hung neatly from the rail and several pairs of soft leather, light brown boots rested on the floor of the wardrobe.

Grabbing all that he could carry, Legolas decided that he would now call an end to his fairly fruitful yet increasingly macabre searching and head back to Aragorn. Hurrying back along the path through the town, Legolas felt another chill steal through him. Night was beginning to fall and the temperature was starting to drop but Legolas thought the weather had very little to do with the cold currently seeping through him, chilling his heart.

In the twilight of this sad day, Legolas felt the overall creepiness of the deserted forest wash over him again. Ghosts, invisible even to his sensitive eyes, haunted the Golden Wood-turned-Black. Shadows of what used to be glided invisibly around him, causing chills to rip through him. He shuddered violently and looked around himself.

This was absurd, he berated himself severely in his head. There were not and never had been any ghosts here. Such things simply did not exist. Only memories, bitter and twisted over the ravages of horror and time, remained in the Wood and, although sad, Legolas knew that rationally he should not fear them. And yet fear them was all he had done for the years since the fall of his own home and people. Memories were painful and he didn't like to dwell on them, which was probably why he felt so dreadfully uncomfortable in this place full of constant spectral reminders, not only of his time in the Golden Wood itself but also of his own lost kingdom, his own slaughtered people.

Suddenly, he felt the almost desperate need to be back with Aragorn, to be once more amongst the living, the breathing, the complaining, once more. He hadn't realised how much he had depended on the boy for that feeling that there was, in this horribly defiled world, something other than the agonies of death. Aragorn was so vibrant compared to all the other wretched beings Legolas had come across on the Old Forest Road since leaving his beloved Mirkwood behind.

Climbing swiftly up the ladder, two rungs at a time, to the flet where the boy was waiting for him, Legolas threw open the broken door and stepped inside, breathlessly looking around for his young charge.

"Aragorn?" Legolas called out in demand when he didn't immediately see his ward. "Where are you?"

"I'm right here," Aragorn answered in frustration, appearing in the doorway of one of the rooms, obviously having detected the panic in his guardian's voice.

"Don't do that!" Legolas exclaimed, striding into the sitting room and dumping the things he had collected from the other houses down on the table in the centre of the room.

"Do what? I didn't do anything!" the boy insisted.

"Disappear like that."

"I was just looking around."

Legolas nodded vacantly, willing his heart to cease its painful pounding against his ribs, and asked the boy, "Did you finish sorting the Lembas?"

"Yes," Aragorn drawled, as if he wouldn't have completed the task set for him. Legolas was in an odd mood, even stranger than before he had left to search the area and rarely did that bode well for him.

"Good. Here," he tossed a bundle of clothes he'd scavenged into Aragorn's arms. "Sort that lot out; see what fits you. We can adjust it if we need to."

"Where did these come from?" Aragorn asked, shifting the clothes thrown haphazardly into his arms so he didn't drop them.

"I had a look through the nearby houses."

"Oh, right."

"Do that and I'll start a fire." Legolas picked up the wood he had also remembered to collect and went over to the stove, kneeling down and opening the bottom metal door, having to pull hard when it stuck from lack of use. It was easy enough to light even with the slightly damp wood and Legolas for a moment basked in the familiar warmth of the stove.

"Are these for me too?" Aragorn called from the sitting room.

Legolas turned to the boy to see him holding up a pair of leather boots. "Yes. There are two pairs there. Pick the pair that fits you best."

"They look new."

"Uh-huh."

"I've never had new shoes before."

"Well, now you do."

**OIOI**

The home was far from perfect. Besides the sparse, mostly broken furniture there were very few homely belongings left in the house. Legolas supposed that perhaps the Elf who had once lived here had been one of the lucky ones who had been allowed to leave early enough, probably before the main attacks on the city, no doubt to travel to the eternal peace of the Undying Lands.

At least that was what he hoped had happened. He didn't like to think that maybe the house's previous inhabitant had abandoned the place because he or she had been forced out by Orcs or whatever other vicious creatures had laid siege to Lothlorien.

"Alright, we have heat," Legolas told the boy once he'd gotten the stove burning well.

"Shall I change into these now?" Aragorn asked of the clothes he was still holding onto.

Legolas stood up and strode over to the boy, laying his hand on Aragorn's shoulders and whirling him around before gently pushing him forwards.

"What are you doing?" the startled boy asked in confusion.

"Before you change your clothes you can clean up." Legolas led the boy into the bathroom, having already emptied his canteen of water into a pan from the kitchen. "Get out of those old clothes," he told Aragorn, picking the pan of water up. "I'll be back in a minute."

He returned to the kitchen and placed the pan on top of the stove for the water to warm up. As he did so, he held his hands over the top, hovering a safe distance from the heat. He wasn't cold, not truly cold like he had been in the past, and yet he relished the heat rising up nevertheless; not so much because he not felt this kind of warmth recently but rather the source of the warmth he now felt. It came from a home; like it had done before the final War.

"It's freezing in here," Aragorn's voice shouted from the bathroom, making Legolas smile slightly.

"Just a moment," he called back then held one hand closer to the simmering water, deciding that it was now warm enough for his purposes. Pulling down the sleeve of his jacket to protect the palm of his hand from the hot handle, Legolas lifted the pan off the stove and carried it into the bathroom where Aragorn waited impatiently. He tipped the water into the basin, which was relatively clean given the state of the rest of the house. "Alright, water to wash in."

"Really?"

"A special treat," Legolas smiled grimly. "I presume you are capable of washing yourself."

"Of course," Aragorn answered in annoyance, plunging his hands into the warm water.

"Then use a flannel," Legolas told him, throwing a clean flannel from the cupboard at him. "And soap," he added, handing the boy a sealed glass bottle filled with sweet-smelling liquid.

"Soap?" the teenager echoed, neither understanding the word not the concept.

"You've never used soap before?"

Aragorn shrugged in reply then stressed, "How would I have?"

"Fair point. Alright, here, let me show you." Legolas unscrewed the lid, taking in the wonderful smell, and tipped the bottle up so a blob of the thick liquid plopped out onto his palm. Replacing the bottle carefully on the side, Legolas rubbed his hands together to form a lather, aware of Aragorn's eyes following his every movement in fascination. "Dampen your arm," he told the young man then waited until he had done as asked. "Then you just rub it all over yourself." He laid his warm hands on Aragorn's arm and rubbed the sweet, oily soap onto cold, filthy skin. At first Aragorn winced at the alien feeling of the strange lather touching his skin but then he cracked a smile. "That's actually quite nice. Smell's good."

"That's the point. It's an Elven concoction."

"I'm starting to really like these Lothlorien Elves," Aragorn smiled, testing the feel of the soap between his fingers.

Legolas didn't respond and took a step back. "You can finish by yourself," he told the boy, wiping his slick hands on the sides of his jacket to clean them. "I'll go find you a towel and get rid of these." He bent down and picked Aragorn's filthy clothes up off the floor, balking at the terrible smell. Having never really noticed it before, the stench came as a grim surprise. "Burn them perhaps," he murmured to himself.

Taking the soiled clothes into the sitting room, he dumped them distastefully onto the chair. After glancing down at himself, Legolas realised that he was in the same state as Aragorn. Over the decades of wandering, the only clothing available being that which he managed to scavenge off the few corpses that remained intact after their death, Legolas was not squeamish about how he looked or the way he dressed. In the past, he may have been rather prim and proper, maintaining the image expected of him by the people under his command – in fact, the old Legolas would have been appalled by his appearance and hygiene now – but things were so very different now, he reasoned as he shrugged his jacket off.

Rolling up his sleeves as he walked, Legolas returned to the bathroom, leaning against the door-frame, mouth poised to speak words that fled his mind when he set his eyes on the boy stood before him.

Years of only consuming the bare minimum necessary for survival should have prepared him for what he saw and yet he was shocked and horrified at the brazenly naked body stood before him. Devoid of the majority of dirt that had covered him, Aragorn looked utterly different. Every single one of his bones could clearly be made out beneath his unnaturally pale skin; there was not so much as an ounce of fat on the thin frame. Legolas knew that chances were that he himself looked very much the same and yet seeing the boy like it, it grieved him greatly. He longed to put it right, for Aragorn to be a normal young man, and yet he found he was trapped by this impossible situation, unable to help the child he was charged to protect and provide for.

"What are you looking at?" Aragorn's voice startled Legolas out of his thoughts and he realised that he had been openly staring. Moving his eyes quickly away, Legolas shook his head, trying to recall why he had come in here in the first place. "Am I doing it wrong?"

"Excuse me?" Legolas croaked then cleared his throat.

"The soap," Aragorn explained, holding the flannel out to show Legolas, as if afraid he had said the new word incorrectly. "Aren't I using it right?"

Forcing a shaky smile onto his lips, Legolas assured, "No, you're doing fine."

"Oh." Aragorn shrugged, lowering the flannel. Then with a frown, he asked, "Then what are you…?"

Legolas cut the boy off, shoving a towel towards him. "I brought you this."

"Thank you." Aragorn took the towel, although the explanation still didn't feel sufficient.

"Uh, I'm going to look for a water source."

"Is that safe?"

"There should be one nearby," Legolas said, taking a step backwards. "I won't be long. Clothes are in the sitting room, remember." As he turned to leave, he said, "Don't forget to do your hair as well."

With that, Legolas hastily left the house with the two canteens and returned once more to the forest floor. It was nearly fully night-time now but the Elf didn't mind the dark; it didn't matter whether the ghosts of the past haunted him in the light or the dark, they were bound to be equally unsettling either way. There was a chill in the air, which would normally have warranted a jacket and yet he liked the cold air as it blew through his hair and caught in his shirt; it helped cleanse him.

He walked with purpose, knowing Lorien well enough to be sure where the nearest clean water supply would be located. It was a shorter walk than he would have liked to the covered well but at least the water remained untainted and the pulley system, rather amazingly he thought, was still working. In no time at all, he had filled the flasks up to the brim. Having no other distraction to indulge, he reluctantly returned to the house.

Aragorn had finished in the bathroom when he entered and was sat half-dressed in the warm sitting room on the floor.

"That didn't take long," the boy commented with a smile when he looked up to see his guardian.

"I told you it wouldn't."

Nodding, Aragorn turned grey eyes on the Elf and said, "There's loads of soap left for you."

"Thank you." Legolas placed the two canteens on the side and went to the kitchen, where he began rifling through more drawers. After a couple of tries, he found what he was looking for and laid around a dozen candles on the counter. Next, he searched for a candle holder but all he could find was an old, thin vase, which would have to suffice.

"Legolas?"

"Yes?"

"Can we eat some of that food now? I'm hungry."

Glancing down at the skeletal boy dressed in ill-fitting Elven clothing, Legolas answered quickly, "Of course we can. Come and sit at the table."

"Why?" Aragorn frowned.

"Because it is how people eat."

"You mean _used_ to eat."

"Did you never eat at a table with the Rangers?"

"No, we were outside, usually around a fire."

"Well then you'll experience two new things today – cleanliness and manners. You're well on your way to becoming civilised, uncouth one," Legolas smiled as he bent to light the candle on the flames from inside the stove. He heard Aragorn chuckle then movement across the creaky floor. After putting the candle in the vase, Legolas laid it in the centre of the table so they could see what they were doing as they ate. He then retrieved two plates from the kitchen cabinets then laid them in front of Aragorn's and his places at the table. Snapping off a quarter of one wafer each, Legolas then took his seat. "Tuck in," he smiled over to the boy.

Looking in disappointment down at the small portion in the centre of his large plate, Aragorn asked forlornly, "That's it? That's all I get?"

Chuckling softly, Legolas assured, "Trust me." He took a small bite off his own wafer. "You won't need much to feel full."

Still not entirely convinced, Aragorn frowned down at his nearly empty plate. "If you say so," he muttered doubtfully under his breath. He picked up the Elvish whey bread and nibbled on corner curiously. "Mm, it tastes good."

"Glad you like it."

For a while they ate in silence, both going slowly to better savour the taste of what, for Aragorn anyway, was a whole new and pleasant experience and for what to Legolas felt like a far distant memory. But, as ever, Aragorn could not hold his quiet for too long.

"Did you visit Lorien a lot before…well, you know?" he asked in a slightly hesitant voice.

"Uh, yes, quite a lot I suppose," Legolas replied suddenly falling into deep thought.

"Did you like it here?"

"Of course. It's beautiful. Or w_as_ beautiful," he corrected, his eyes set on the plate before him.

"Tell me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Tell me about Lothlorien, how it used to be."

"It is difficult to describe in words."

Aragorn shrugged. "You could try." At Legolas' continued reluctance, the boy grinned widely at him and reasoned, "Come on, you know how much I hate long silences. Of course, I could fill it with tales from the Rangers again."

"No, I don't need to hear any more of their kinds of stories, thank you very much. And I don't think it was appropriate of them to tell a young child such stories in the first place."

"They are entertaining."

"They are positively obscene," Legolas reproved shortly, his eyes flicking up to meet Aragorn's amused gaze. The teenager chuckled knowingly and then drew breath and opened his mouth to start one of the explicit stories he had picked up from the Men he had travelled with, but Legolas hastily started, "This forest was once a blossoming haven. The leaves golden, creating a canopy that looked for all the world as if it was consisted of pure sunshine. Silver bark of the trees lit the lower levels with shining light, as if it was bathed in star-shine. When the Elves took to the trees and sang the day in, it echoed around the woods, exquisite music composed in honour of the home they adored.

"In the winter, snow covered the land and the people of Lorien rejoiced in it; they danced and played when it came. And in the summer they congregated around the river and swam in the cool waters until night drew in."

Legolas looked up at the boy, who was watching him in complete wonder, hanging on his every word. It took him a moment to realise that the Elf had stopped talking and he blinked rapidly as if waking from a daze.

"Tell me more," the boy prompted eagerly.

"Like what?"

"What were the people like?"

"Great warriors, some of them. They adored the forests and its guardians – Celeborn and Galadriel. There were great crafts-people amongst them too and they often built elaborate homes in the trees."

"Like this one."

"Yes. Although fully intact and drenched in silver light they looked even more splendid than you can imagine."

"Were the soldiers very fearsome?"

"When they had to be. The Galadhrim would defend their lands and their people with their lives. Attacks on Lothlorien were few and far between before the start of the War though."

"Why?"

"Lothlorien's borders were protected by magic."

"Magic." At the mention of something mystical, Aragorn's eyes shone even brighter and he leaned forward over the table.

Legolas smiled slightly at the young man's enthusiasm. "Lady Galadriel was the bearer of one of the three original Rings of the Elves. Before the creatures of Sauron stole it from her, Galadriel possessed Nenya, which she used to cloak her realm from the eyes of Evil and add strength to the defences.

"Galadriel was a Ring-bearer?"

"She was."

Aragorn nodded slowly, mulling over this new piece of information. The legends of how Sauron had risen to power by stealing the three most powerful Rings from the hands of their bearers, an act which brought about the end of peace on Arda were well known to even the uneducated Aragorn. If one so powerful that she could hide an entire realm was unable to stand against the might of the Shadow then it was no wonder they had lost the War.

"And Lord Celeborn was an equal protector. He helped to build the kingdom around the forest and he defended it – no doubt to the last."

"They sound amazing, like characters from the stories my dad used to tell me."

"Yes," Legolas said softly, "they were."

Now picking idly at the crumbs of his food from his plate, Aragorn asked quietly, "What about your home?" He instantly felt the tension shoot up between them, like a physical barrier. "You must have good memories of that as well."

Legolas rocked back on his chair, his eyes roving around the small home. "It's getting late and we'll be leaving in the morning; you should get some sleep."

"Why do you hate talking about your home so much?"

Clearing his throat, Legolas got to his feet. "Are you finished?" he asked flatly, going to pick up Aragorn's plate.

"Yes." Before he had the chance to stop him, Legolas had strode into the kitchen area to clear away the plates. "Legolas, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset…"

The clattering of plates sounded as Legolas dropped them carelessly down on the counter, startling Aragorn a little. "Finish cleaning up then get some sleep," Legolas told him in annoyance.

"But…"

Striding to the door, Legolas snapped, "I don't want to talk about this."

"Well, I do! You know everything about me and I know nothing at all about you. How is that fair when you're supposed to be my protector and I'm supposed to trust you?"

Turning on the boy, anger, fearsome and frightening to the young Aragorn, burned in eyes darkened by candlelight, Legolas suddenly yelled, "My life, my past has absolutely nothing to do with you! Now go to sleep like I told you!"

Standing to face his guardian, Aragorn softened his approach and asked the burning question: "What did you do that you want to forget so badly?"

Rather than the anticipated anger that Aragorn had braced himself for, in the light of the flickering candle, Legolas' features softened and Aragorn noticed a strange, distant look come to his face. He had touched a nerve. After the wave of momentary pride had left, Aragorn felt guilt creeping up. Obviously, this was a sore subject that caused the Elf considerable pain. What right did he have to push for answers when Legolas considered it too private to discuss?

"Legolas, I am sorry."

"Please go to bed like I asked," Legolas told him in a thick voice.

"I…"

"Aragorn, please."

"Alright. Where are you going to go?"

"Out," Legolas said before stepping out of the door and disappearing down the ladder.

Left on his own again, Aragorn closed his eyes in dismay. It truthfully had not been his intention to upset his mentor but the morose, uncommunicative Elf was beginning to really frustrate him and he did deserve to know about Legolas. But he hadn't meant to be hurtful. After all, Legolas had always protected him, had never really demanded anything from him in return. What more did he really want from his guardian? If Legolas wanted to conceal the truth, then he should allow him to do so, respect his wishes. Surely that wasn't too much to ask.

**To Be Continued…**


	14. Cast Into Exile

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

_**Memories are in italics.**_

**A/N: Thank you to all those of you who have reviewed. I appreciate every one of them.**

**Enjoy this next chapter.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 14 – Cast Into Exile**

For nearly an hour, Legolas walked around the decimated city, heedless of the thick darkness that had descended, trying to clear his head and ease the painful throbbing in his chest. His mind spun in confusion. The sudden interrogation by his ward had caught him off guard. He had not expected it from the boy.

A sudden memory of the last time they had had a similar argument made him falter in his steps. The last time, Aragorn had run from his notoriously cagey guardian and had gotten himself trapped by cannibalistic maniacs. Surely an Elf's inherent pride was not worth losing the boy over, no matter how important it may have seemed at the time.

And yet Legolas' treacherous pounding heart cautioned him to be wary of the truth that haunted him. Years of pushing down the memories of what had happened in Mirkwood, in those last fatal days of his once beloved kingdom, had made him cautious of revealing the fear that lay deep in his heart.

But Aragorn had been correct about deserving to know at least something about the person he had been entrusted to. The boy was, after all, putting an awful lot of faith in him despite the fact that he had as of yet done very little to really earn it. Yes, he had cared for the child as he grew up, soothed him when he was sad or unwell, tutored him, protected him, defended him, but he had never really given the boy anything of himself. He'd been a silent, enigmatic shadow with no past, walking at Aragorn's side almost like a ghost, prompting him into following the correct course. There and yet irrevocably distant. He liked it that way. Attachments always resulted in pain in the end and, before his reluctant acceptance of the guardianship of Aragorn, he had avoided them at all costs. It had always been so much easier that way. When you had nothing, you had nothing to lose.

But_ this_ was his life now. He travelled with Aragorn and the maturing boy was relying on him less and less with every passing season and yet he had to trust his guardian increasingly with decisions regarding his future as King of Gondor. Surely that alone called for a more balanced, mutual relationship than the one Legolas currently entertained.

He didn't like the idea, but he realised as he walked in near-complete darkness, that it was the right and fair thing to do.

Resolved to carry out his decision, Legolas turned back and hurried to the house.

When he stepped inside, he immediately saw the boy laid on the wooden floor wrapped in their own, threadbare blanket. The candles on the table where they had eaten earlier remained lit and Legolas had to take a long breath to keep his irritation at the boy for such senseless waste in check. Instead, he walked on silent feet over to Aragorn. The boy seemed peacefully asleep but Legolas, after his rejuvenating walk, felt the need to talk. So he bent down and shook Aragorn's shoulder to wake him.

"What…?" Aragorn mumbled, opening his eyes blearily and looking up at the disturbance. "You're back?"

"Yes," Legolas smiled slightly, straightening out.

"Are you…alright?" the boy asked cautiously, shoving aside the blanket and sitting up.

Rather than answering, Legolas gestured to the kitchen table, upon which the candles still flickered, and offered, "Come sit with me for a while." Aragorn frowned in confusion and no small amount of trepidation at what might be coming. "Come on," Legolas assured with a smile, "I want to talk to you, that's all."

Getting to his feet, Aragorn padded bare-foot over to the table, taking the seat Legolas had pulled out for him. Instead of sitting down opposite him though, Legolas first wandered into the kitchen and put a pot of water on the stove before digging around in the larder until he found a wooden chest tucked away on the bottom shelf. He then pulled two mugs from the cupboards, unconcerned when the door he had opened fell off its hinges and crashed to the floor in a cloud of dust. Taking a pinch of dried leaves from the chest, Legolas sprinkled them into the pot of now boiling water.

All the time Aragorn watched his actions closely but did not speak, uncertain about what to say.

Legolas eventually poured the liquid from the pan into the two mugs.

"Here, drink," Legolas told Aragorn when he'd returned to the table with the mugs.

Aragorn took the mug carefully and bent over it, sniffing deeply. The sweet, delicious smell was like nothing he had ever experienced before and he inhaled deeply again.

"What is it?"

"Just herbal tea," Legolas told him before taking a long drink. "I have missed this," he then smiled to himself in pleasure at the wonderfully familiar taste. Following his mentor's example, Aragorn sipped at the tea and was pleased to discover that it tasted as good as he'd hoped. "Good, no?"

"Umm, excellent," Aragorn agreed warmly. "So, what did you want to talk about?"

Another of Legolas' long, uncomfortable silences followed as he stared thoughtfully down at the light green, steaming tea in the mug between his hands on the table. When he did start to talk, Aragorn had to lean forward and strain to hear, it was so quiet.

"This isn't easy for me – to talk about…before the War." Aragorn was instantly more alert at this, anticipation fluttering deep in his stomach at what might be said. "But you were right; you do deserve to know about the person you're travelling with."

"Thank you," Aragorn said softly.

Legolas smiled grimly, his eyes moving up to meet the boy's at last, as he said, "I haven't said anything yet."

"Sorry," the teen grinned sheepishly at his guardian.

Yet another extended silence put Aragorn on edge again and he fought not to break it, realising that the Elf needed the time to gather his thoughts before speaking. And his patience eventually paid off.

Legolas started to speak softly, his gaze once more on the contents of his mug rather than on his eagerly listening charge.

"It didn't fall easily. Mirkwood had a formidable army, well trained in keeping the Orcs away from the stronghold formed around the palace and surrounding villages. They fought long and hard in the beginning to protect the realm. And I stood at their side as they did so…"

_**Mirkwood…40 Years Ago…**_

_They remained strategically poised, in complete silence that only the blessed race of Elves could achieve, in the high branches of the great trees, camouflaged and hidden amidst the green, vibrant leaves that yet survived in the forest of the nevertheless aptly named Mirkwood. For months now they had been losing ground on the stronghold and this was a last ditch attempt to retain the land around the main town where hundreds of innocents dwelt. The warriors, captained by their beloved Crown Prince who had stood at their sides as they fought the massive influx of evil that had swarmed over the forest ever since the might of the Black Lands had grown in power, stood on the front line; the first and most effective defence against the Shadow. Massively depleted in numbers already they may have been but they nevertheless continued to defend the land they loved._

"_Alright," Legolas whispered in a voice so low that only his fellow Elves and not the Orcs milling about the sizeable camp that stretched out beneath them could hear. "Spread out. When I give the signal, first wave go down, second wave led by me will provide cover fire from up here. Take out as many of the leaders and Uruk-hai as you can to start with, after that hit anything that moves. Once your arrows are depleted, shift to swords." All around him there were soft murmurs of understanding and consent. Turning shining blue eyes to his soldiers, exhausted from months of endless difficult patrols and battles, Legolas told them, "This is our last chance to protect our lands from the Shadow. We are all that stand between the Orcs and total ruin."_

_Bolstered by their prince's seemingly unwavering confidence, the warriors of Mirkwood moved swiftly through the trees, fanning out as ordered. Beneath them, the Orcs moved about their camp oblivious to the ambush awaiting them in the trees._

_Legolas waited until he heard the subtle calls of his soldiers indicating their readiness, then he pulled an arrow from his full quiver, aware of those beside him mirroring the action. Then, preparing himself for what was to come, he sounded the charge._

_Elves leapt effortlessly from their hiding places in the trees, covered by the arrows raining down upon the startled Orcs from their companions in the trees, and charged into them, swords clashing with flesh and bone and metal. Caught unawares, the foul creatures fell easily at first but soon enough they rallied and fought back against the Mirkwood defenders. The ambush progressed into battle. As always when the two sides engaged in battle, it was dirty, disorganised as the residents of Mirkwood clashed with the unprepared Orcs and Uruks. Once their arrows were spent, the second wave of Elves leapt into the fray._

_The battle was short. Despite the Elves' superior organisation, the sheer volume of the creatures of Mordor made for a fearsome opponent and as he fought with all his strength, Legolas watched his soldiers quailing under the Shadow._

_Despite their best efforts, Legolas was forced to call the retreat._

**OIOIOI**

"Did you fight many battles?" Aragorn asked, interrupting Legolas' account of Mirkwood's last days.

The Elf looked up in surprise at the question. "Uh, yes, I suppose I did."

"And did you captain them all?"

"Most." Legolas looked darkly at him, then said, "May I continue now?"

"Yes. Sorry."

**OIOIOI**

"_You lost the ground?" the Elven-king ground out angrily, blue eyes blazing in anger._

"_We were forced to retreat, my Lord. The power of the Shadow was too great. My soldiers were overwhelmed," Legolas confirmed from his position knelt on the floor before the king's throne. "We had no other choice."_

"_I see," Thranduil mused, pacing restlessly before his son and heir. "And what of the town?"_

"_I have evacuated the most vulnerable parts. There were a few casualties but no civilian fatalities. Troops have been posted around the town and the army remains on high alert."_

"_Good. I want regular reports from those guards."_

"_Of course, Your Majesty."_

_Continuing his rhythmic pacing, Thranduil's hard blue eyes ran over his son with obvious disapproval. "I am disappointed in you, Legolas. I expected more. I thought at least you would hold the line."_

"_We did our best, sire."_

"_It seems that your best is becoming increasingly inadequate," the king retorted sharply._

"_My Lord…" Legolas started, recognising the king's frustrations; they had lost so much land and so many good people of late that it was causing considerable strain from all sides._

"_Be silent," Thranduil commanded._

_Lowering his head, Legolas did as ordered._

"_This was no small loss. The stronghold has been breached." There were muffled murmurs of unrest amongst the gathered advisors who stood around Thranduil and the prince, listening to his dire reports from the front. "Our people are more vulnerable than ever and today I gave permission for yet another convoy to leave for the Grey Havens – they are losing confidence in our ability to protect them," the king's voice boomed out clearly for all to hear. Pausing in front of his son, he demanded, "Now tell me, as commander of my army, what are you planning to do now?"_

"_I…" After spending his past few days in the town organising defences and patrols, Legolas had had little opportunity to consider what his next move should be._

"_Well?" the king challenged. "You have no plan?"_

"_My Lord, if you would just allow me some time to form a suitable strategy…"_

"_We have no more time! Already reports have come that Lothlorien is besieged and Rivendell is close to collapse. We cannot fall also. I will not yield this realm to that abomination Sauron," Thranduil yelled in anger._

"_I will not let that happen," Legolas protested quickly, his eyes fixed upon his father._

"_And yet you lost the town."_

"_Your Majesty…"_

"_I have heard enough." Thranduil raised his hand to put a stop to his son's excuses. "I want a full, written report from you and your fellow captains by tomorrow evening as well as an outline of what you plan to do next."_

"_Your Majesty…"_

"_You are dismissed."_

_Legolas got to his feet, offering his king a quick respectful bow, but he lingered rather than leaving as the advisors filed out. "Your Majesty?"_

_Thranduil turned back to him, question written on his features. "What is it?"_

"_I lost three soldiers this week alone. Two of them were new recruits."_

_The king's eyes hardened defensively. "Your point?"_

"_They gave their lives for the defence of this realm and I don't believe it was all for nothing. We are doing the best we can against impossible odds and depleted resources." Thranduil left the side of the advisor he had been about to speak to about food distribution for the troops and walked steadily down the steps until he stood in front of his straight-backed, confident son. "I will not believe those soldiers died for nothing. I can't believe it. It has to all be for something. And as long as I have breath in my body my soldiers and I shall defend this kingdom to the very last," Legolas told him. "I will not disappoint you again, Father."_

_A small smile came to Thranduil's lips despite the grimness of the meeting they had just concluded and his hand came to rest on Legolas' shoulder. "I know that." Legolas nodded, looking down from the king's eyes sadly. Turning to his remaining advisors, Thranduil told them, "We're done for the night." To Legolas he then said, "Come with me, son."_

_Legolas walked behind his father to the king's office. Once the door had closed behind them, allowing for privacy, Thranduil turned to his only living son._

"_Are you alright? You're not hurt?" Thranduil asked in concern, gesturing for Legolas to sit._

"_I am not hurt, Father."_

"_You look tired," the king commented quietly as he poured them each a glass of wine._

"_It's been a long few months," the prince sighed deeply._

"_Indeed." He handed Legolas one of the glasses, half full of potent red wine. He then lowered himself gracefully into the chair and took a long, indulgent drink of one of his best liquors. "Things will get better."_

"_They can't possibly get any worse."_

"_Elrond of Rivendell says that Imladris is holding up remarkably well despite…Well, you heard about the fall of Hobbiton?" _

_Legolas nodded wearily, finishing off the last of his wine as he pondered on how once he had not even known that a place filled with what his father referred to as 'little Men' existed. Now he knew of so many strange places, all set upon by the Shadow. How he longed for the ignorance of the past when he didn't have to read death and casualty reports from varying cultures from all across Middle Earth as well as his own kingdom._

"_More?" his father offered, lifting the wine bottle but putting it back when Legolas shook his head dismissively. "Of course Elrond was quick to smugly remind me that he has those ridiculous Rangers on his side as added protection to his Haven."_

"_And two commanders instead of one, and Captain Glorfindel, and they don't live next to a nest of the creatures of Shadow," Legolas added dourly._

"_He just sounded so smug in his letter," Thranduil grouched, crossing his legs and readjusting his glass on his knee. "As if we had any control over what those creatures are planning." The king got up and stalked to the window overlooking the gardens of his palace. "He asked for our aid. Of course I had to say no. As if we don't have enough to worry about in our own lands." The king sighed heavily. "We can't spare the soldiers, after all. It makes no sense that…"_

_When Thranduil glanced around to catch a glance of his son's expected disgusted expression he was surprised to find Legolas' head bowed, obviously not paying any attention to his words. And when he was ranting about the Peredhel as well!_

"_Legolas?" he asked, stepping closer. However, his chagrin disappeared and he smiled softly when he realised that his son had fallen asleep where he sat. It was no wonder he was exhausted; he had hardly spent a single day at home since this whole thing had started months ago when Sauron had redoubled his efforts to lay claim to the Woodland Realm of Mirkwood._

_Stepping up to his son, Thranduil carefully took the wine glass from between lax fingers and laid it on his desk. Then he shook Legolas' shoulder so the prince startled awake._

"_What?" Legolas asked, blinking rapidly as he sat upright in his chair. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't catch that last part."_

_Thranduil smiled kindly, all the dark seriousness that had hardened his eyes earlier having softened now that they were just father and son rather than the publically expected king and prince. "You need to go to bed."_

"_I need…"_

"_Come," the king said, dragging his son up from the chair. "Get some sleep. We can talk more once you have rested."_

"_Thank you, Father." Legolas smiled gratefully as Thranduil pulled him in close for a hug._

_When they parted, Thranduil patted his son's arm. "Go while you have the chance."_

_Legolas nodded wearily, heading for the door and said, "Goodnight, Father."_

"_Sleep well, Legolas," the king called after him, taking a seat behind his desk to look over the numerous reports that had accumulated during the day._

**OIOIOI**

"Legolas," Aragorn called as he watched his guardian become lost deep in thought.

The Elf startled, looking up in surprise. He hadn't realised that he had finished speaking quite a while ago and they had been sitting in complete silence for long moments.

"I'm sorry," the Elf smiled shakily, clearing his throat in embarrassment at his lapse in concentration.

"Did you know the king well?" Aragorn asked to call the memories back to Legolas' mind and get him talking again.

"What?" Legolas frowned in confusion for a moment. Then he remembered, as Aragorn repeated his question, that he had purposefully left out any references to his true relationship with King Thranduil – he had referred to himself only as a confidante and captain in the king's army. Despite his desire to be truthful with the boy, he wasn't quite ready to drop the 'Prince' title on him just yet. "Uh, yes," Legolas finally said in answer to Aragorn's ice-breaking question. "I knew him quite well. That is, I reported to him frequently."

This at least was true. Of course, Legolas, being King Thranduil's child and, after the fall of his brothers to the Shadow, his one remaining heir, was loved above all else by his father and doted upon by the king and the residents of the palace. But the moment he took up the title of 'Commander of the Mirkwood Guard', inherited from his brother, he had started to have a more professional relationship with the king. That father-son bond remained undiminished in private but in public, when he stood in the throne room in his uniform, he was a soldier and he treated his king with the same respect his fellow soldiers did.

"Was he frightening?" the boy asked eagerly of the king of Mirkwood, leaning eagerly across the table.

Legolas chuckled gently, lowering his eyes to his now empty mug. "Some thought so but, no, I didn't find him frightening." He had, however, seen many a brave Elf quail under the king's cold, withering stare. "But he is…was a formidable ruler. A great leader."

"You liked him?"

"Very much." A wave of sadness washed over him as he spoke of his father. The deep loneliness that ached in his heart grew and he pressed his hand to his chest for a moment, willing it to pass. Once the momentary flash of pain had subsided, Legolas raised his steady gaze to Aragorn again and he forced a smile onto his lips. "Now, would you mind me finishing, or would you prefer to sit staring at me in silence for the rest of the night?"

"No," the young man said, blushing at being caught staring at his guardian. "Sorry. Carry on."

With very little reluctance this time, Legolas spoke confidently of the past. "The attacks on the kingdom became ever more frequent and more vicious after that victory over the main town. In spite of the efforts of the army, forces were massively depleted after so many attacks and the Shadow eventually took over the stronghold, cutting down all that stood in its path. Against such a swell of evil, the remaining soldiers stood little chance.

"It wasn't long before even the mystical defences surrounding the palace fell to the Orcs and the king's sanctuary was penetrated. With the army all but gone, only a few remained to fight and they defended the heart of the kingdom with their lives."

**Mirkwood… 20 Years Ago…**

_All about him desperate cries echoed as the rooms of Mirkwood's great stone palace were, one by one, breached, their fearful occupants dragged kicking and screaming out into the halls. Fires raged all around, started by the Orcs to flush out the Elves gone into hiding, filling the huge stone palace with thick, black smoke. But there was nothing Legolas could do to douse the flames or calm the panic. The palace was taken. There was no more Mirkwood's prince could do but try to get out as many people as he could before the Orcs completely swamped it._

_Herding a couple of frightened young healers along the corridors, which were already littered with the grisly remnants of the small battles going on all around the palace, Legolas headed for the nearest exit he could think of. Although armed with his twin white knives and his bow along with a full quiver of arrows, he made certain to take lesser-used back passages away from the main centre of the fighting in an attempt to avoid confrontation whilst shepherding the innocent away from the slaughter._

_Unfortunately, by the time they reached the side door out of the palace, the Orcs had sealed the doors, trapping the remaining Elves inside their burning castle. Dragging the terrified healers away from the Orc guards at the door, Legolas told them to hide and await his return. He planned to get more people this far out, then they might stand a chance at overpowering the Orcs and escaping together; he would make the civilians fight their way out alongside him if necessary._

_Running back down the corridors, killing whatever dark creature got in his way, Legolas shoved a couple more panicky Elves in the direction of the hiding healers._

_Screaming, wild and terrified, filled the halls now but Legolas was not deterred from his destination. He wanted now to find his father. The king had left his side hours ago, dressed in his little-used full battle gear and armed to defend his palace fort and the people within, and Legolas had not seen him since. Of course he knew that Thranduil could defend himself; he was fully capable of fighting, having spent centuries as a soldier before being crowned King of Mirkwood and even after that, against the fervent pleas of his nervy advisors, endeavouring to protect the beleaguered people of his realm. Even so, Legolas did not like the thought of his father standing alone. And he knew for certain that the king would stand until the very last._

_As expected, the throne room, where the Orcs obviously anticipated the king of the Mirkwood Elves would be, was in all-out war. Elves, some of them clearly not trained soldiers, fought with the Orcs and Goblins that had ruthlessly laid siege to the palace. Already the floor was running with the crimson blood of the dead Elves that littered the great hall and mingled with the thick black fluid of the slain Orcs. The cacophony of battle was nearly deafening but Legolas stood his ground, unafraid of the challenge presenting him._

_As he lingered unnoticed in the doorway, his eyes darted over the battle. Amidst the flashes of crimson steel and the haze of red, Legolas found what he was searching for – a streak of pale gold. His father fought in the centre of the melee, a frightening and empowering figure to his loyal followers._

_Legolas hesitated for only a moment longer before unsheathing his knives and plunging into the brutal battle. At the arrival of their prince, the commander of the army, some of the younger Elves rallied around him, as if in his presence they would be afforded some small level of protection. As it was, it was probably the most dangerous place to be as, at the smell of royal blood, young and vital, the Orcs became even more frenzied and mounted a vicious attack on the prince._

_Still, they fought. Even as every one of the well-trained soldiers fell to Orc scimitars, completely overwhelmed by the creatures of Mordor, the ones who seemed innocuous, those who the Orcs weren't too interested in getting rid of as they believed them to pose no significant threat, still guarded their prince and king, who, although exhausted and injured, remained fighting._

_Through the seething mass of Orcs it was difficult for Legolas to keep track of his father's progress in battle. When he did finally catch a glimpse of the king though, he froze. The king was now on his knees, sword no longer held in confident hands but rather lying a few feet away from him, useless. Blood trickled through white fingers, which pressed hard against his left side. The king was injured. Orcs had surrounded him and in spite of the bloodlust that must by now have been nearly overwhelmingly potent in them, they held back, snarling and laughing in the face of the dying Elf-king. More joined them as they realised that royal blood had been spilled, abandoning the few Elves who remained on their feet._

"_Go!" Legolas commanded, shoving the few young Elves who remained standing towards the double doors, hoping to get them out of the palace whilst the Orcs were distracted._

_Before they even reached the doors though, the rusty point of a sword stabbed through their throats one by one and they fell at Legolas' feet, unable to even speak a last word of surprise. Turning in horror to the tall, Orc-like creatures, the Uruk-hair, Legolas stared._

"_Well, another pretty prize, boys," one of the huge Uruks sneered through blackened teeth._

_Raising his blood-slickened knives, Legolas stood firm. "Get…"_

_He was barely able to start his sentence before an arrow suddenly slammed into the Uruk closest to him, then another fast succession of arrows took out the rest of the Uruk-hai before they had a chance to retaliate. Still stunned, Legolas felt a hand grab his arm and he spun to find himself face to face with his old friend and personal bodyguard. The older Elf was bleeding profusely from a wound on his thigh and a long gash decorated his brow but he remained determined._

"_Come, Your Highness," the guard said urgently, stumbling and dragging Legolas after him._

_Gripping his old friend's blood-streaked arm to halt their progress, Legolas ground out above the noise of the baying Orcs, "No. Go, summon all the soldiers you can find and bring them here right away."_

"_Sir, no, we have to get you out of here." The guard tugged desperately on Legolas' arm, looking through the doorway at the Orcs running along the corridors. Currently, the Orcs within the throne room were distracted by the King, who remained alive but on his knees, staring defiantly up at the Orcs with a cool, level gaze. The prince would be a fine prize for the Shadow, no doubt, and the guard knew that soon they would tire of tormenting the king and turn to the prince for sport. "We have to go now, Your Highness."_

"_No," Legolas growled, snatching his arm free. "I am not leaving without the king."_

_He went to plunge back into the fray but his bodyguard held him back. "No, my Lord. You'll be killed!"_

"_I have to get my father."_

_Still, the guard held firm to his prince. "The battle is lost. Mirkwood is fallen."_

"_Not while I draw breath," Legolas told him passionately, his eyes burning._

"_That is why you must run."_

"_No."_

"_Your Highness, please, I beg you," the tall Elf pleaded desperately, acutely aware that their time was running out. The Orcs were circling the king now, laughing and jeering. He could sense his monarch's time on Middle Earth was drawing to an end; they would not toy with him much longer._

"_Get off of me!"_

"_I will not!" the guard shouted, suddenly grabbing his startled prince and shoving him roughly up against the wall. "Listen to me, you are all that is left now. The palace has been taken, there is no army left to regain the stronghold, the towns are over-run. There is nothing left. Now, you have to go."_

"_I have to stay. I have to defend…"_

"_Don't you understand – there is nothing left to defend."_

_Looking wide-eyed around himself at the devastation that had been brought upon his troubled but beloved realm, Legolas said softly, "Then I have nothing left to lose."_

"_But I do."_

"_I can…I can stop this."_

"_It is too late, my Prince. All is lost."_

_Legolas shook his head vigorously in denial, "No."_

"_If all of Mirkwood falls to ruin, give me and your people some small comfort – to know that you are alive." Glaring imploringly into his prince's eyes, the guard continued, "You have to go now, Highness."_

"_I will not run away." Legolas' hand tightened around the handle of his knife._

"_Yes, you will. But you have to go now, sir, please, we're running out of time." All around them echoed the screams of the trapped citizens of Mirkwood. Fires blazed in the once magnificent palace, destroying all in their way. The Orcs had ensured that none could escape. Those still trapped inside would soon be dead and Legolas' mind went to the two terrified young healers he had told to hide until his return. All of Mirkwood was over-run and there was no army left to push the evil out._

_Mirkwood was lost._

"_I cannot run," the prince said in a softer voice now, resigned._

"_You must."_

_Legolas shook his head, still undecided. "There is no way out," he breathed shakily._

"_The security tunnels – they are scattered entrances all over the palace; we can get to one from here. You'll be able to get out of the palace that way."_

"_The king," Legolas said almost despairingly._

_Dropping his gaze from that of his prince, the guard said, "He is already dead, Your Highness. He was dead the moment they laid their hands on him. I am sorry."_

_Legolas knew it was the truth. He'd known it as soon as he'd stepped through those doors into the fight. His father had fallen. The king was dead. But as the truth sunk in, Legolas realised that he had been expecting this, but he had also been expecting that he would fall at his father's side._

_Even though he knew there was no time for grief right now, tears pooled in Legolas' eyes._

"_Your Highness, we have to go now."_

_Leaning his head back, feeling the cool stone of his home, Legolas closed his eyes in shame. "I can't."_

_As his eyes flicked urgently to the door, the guard said softly, "You must." By now smoke was pouring down the corridor and the screamed that had previously resounded so loudly around the palace were now fading. "Come, my Lord." This time when the bodyguard dragged his prince towards the doorway, Legolas did not fight him._

_Stumbling after the fleeing guard and very nearly tripping over the grisly remains of the slain, Legolas followed obediently to the other side of the room. He paid no attention to their destination. His eyes were on only one thing: his father. He barely noticed the Orcs that had spotted them and were now heading towards them in anger. He hardly noticed the arrows, slick and black with deadly poison, being released in their direction or the one well-aimed missile hitting his friend in the shoulder. He was almost completely unaware of being pushed through the small gap where once a huge portrait of some ancient Elven king stood._

_The prince's eyes were fixed only on his father. Bright blue eyes, shimmering with regret through the clamour of battle, met Legolas'. The look of impending death._

_When one of the Orcs still surrounding the kneeling king raised his sword – the king's own glinting blade – Legolas fought to get past his bodyguard, who yelled desperately at him to run from the massacre within the throne room, for he knew that now the king was as good as dead the attention of the Orcs would be drawn to the last remaining Elf of royal blood within Mirkwood._

"_No!" the prince yelled as his father flopped lifelessly forward onto his front._

_Legolas knew it was coming – he'd known all along, after all – and yet his heart broke in two, his chest pounding in sheer agony of his beloved father's passing._

_Now, reality brutally came back to Legolas but even though he was again able to process the attack on the palace and his bodyguard's desperate pleas for him to follow him to safety, he found that he simply didn't care if he should live or die. What did it matter now that the king was dead and Mirkwood left in ruins? So what if he died too? Surely that would be a blessed relief considering the alternative._

"_Highness, now!" the bodyguard pleaded, close to tears himself at witnessing the fall of his king and the grief etched onto his prince's features._

"_My father," Legolas breathed helplessly as the goblins swarmed over the fallen Elf-king._

_Legolas was not entirely sure what happened next. His memory, his very existence it seemed, was curtained by a grief too horrible to dwell on and he could not see past it even in those last few fleeting moments of his father's life if he had wanted to. Somehow a minute later, he found himself standing in the cold, silent security tunnel, one of many built into the palace for the safety of King Thranduil and his princes, next to his bleeding protector and friend. The door, thick and sturdy, had been closed tight although already Legolas could hear the pounding of the foul, murderous creatures of Shadow on the other side, clawing desperately to get another taste of tender Elf flesh._

_Anger pulsed in his veins and he withdrew his knife from the sheath at his side. When he made for the door though, intent on seeking revenge for the slaying of his father, trembling hands, terribly weakened in such a short time, held him back once more._

"_Unhand me."_

"_Your Highness."_

_The previously strong warrior Elf now sounded considerably weaker, his voice fading into a desperate, whispered plea to his prince. And when Legolas had reined in his anger enough to look over at him, he understood the cause of the change. Three long, black-shafted arrows protruded from the guard's torso, all laced with the deadly poison favoured by the Orcs._

"_You have to go, Your Highness."_

_The pounding from the other side of the door intensified and Legolas knew it would not be long before the creatures of Mordor broke through._

"_My father…"_

"_The king is dead." Now was a time for bluntness, if there ever was one._

_There was no way back now, Legolas knew. His father had fallen and the palace was over-run. All he could do was run or succumb to death himself._

_Nodding decisively, Legolas said, "Let's go."_

"_You go, sire, I'll hold them off."_

"_I am not leaving you behind."_

_Smiling grimly and looking down at himself, the bodyguard whispered, "Forgive me, Your Highness, but I don't think I am going to make it."_

"_Yes, you are."_

"_My job, my prince is to get you to safety. Please don't make me fail in my mission."_

"_My friend…"_

"_Go, Legolas, please."_

_And so, the Prince of Mirkwood threw himself into exile from the home he had once loved so very dearly._

**To Be Continued…**


	15. All That Remains Hidden

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far. Please keep them coming. I love hearing from you all. Let me know people are still reading this.**

**Enjoy the chapter, readers!**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 15 – All The Remains Hidden**

Silence, deep and final, fell as Legolas' final soft words trailed away, lost in the night even as the wisps of memory and sadness lingered about him. Aragorn's eyes remained fixed on the Elf's face, seemingly ever-changing in the light of the flickering candle. He had to admit that he was surprised by the story, shocked by how thoroughly Legolas' home had been destroyed by the armies of Shadow. No probing questions popped into his head as they usually did, clamouring to get out and find answers. And the silence continued for a long time - until Legolas finally broke it himself.

Tormented blue eyes were slowly raised from where they had stared blankly at the table for long minutes to instead meet Aragorn's sympathetic grey ones and he softly confessed, "So I ran away."

Shaking his head at the almost broken admission from his clearly pained guardian, Aragorn whispered, "I am sorry," not knowing quite what else to say.

Legolas smiled softly at this. "It is not your fault. I am to blame, no other." With a calmness that made Aragorn have to work to conceal a shudder, Legolas continued, "Coward that I was, I took the easy way out. I ran away. I left all my friends behind tied to their fates and fled my homeland."

"You are not a coward," Aragorn stressed with fierce conviction, leaning forward over the table for emphasis, one hand reaching out to almost touch the strong hands of his mentor, which were laid flat against the wood as if bracing the Elf where he sat.

"Thank you, Aragorn, but such words mean so little now. What happened will forever be. Now all I can do is try to redeem myself for my cowardice."

Rocking back on his chair thoughtfully, Aragorn asked after a moment, "Is that what I am to you – redemption?"

"I suppose so. I swore to your father that I would raise you, protect you from all evils, prepare you for the task ahead of you and I will honour that promise no matter what."

"You have not failed me so far," Aragorn smiled softly in reassurance, praying that it would at least be of some small comfort to the one he trusted above all.

Returning the smile, although with perhaps less conviction, Legolas argued softly, "Yes I have. But there is time yet to correct that."

"You don't need to do anything more," the young man protested immediately.

Legolas just smiled again and even though he didn't argue further, Aragorn could tell that the Elf was still not convinced.

"Do you think you'll ever go back there?" Aragorn asked softly after a while.

"To Mirkwood? No," Legolas shook his head with conviction that he had so far lacked during this conversation. "No, I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"My family and friends perished in that forest whilst I ran and thus escaped a similar fate. I don't think I could ever face standing on that site again, being judged so harshly for my sins." Legolas looked into expressive grey eyes, a lump forming in his throat at the compassion that burned so blatantly in them. He did not desire sympathy from any being but the simple knowledge that after all those years after the fall of Mirkwood spent in cruel, self-inflicted isolation that someone cared enough to feel _something_ for his misfortunes meant more to him than he would ever have thought possible. "Besides," he added, clearing his throat in order to keep his voice steady, "I have no reason to return."

"Maybe someday you will have cause," Aragorn suggested hopefully with a shrug. And despite Legolas' apparent confidence that he never would set foot on the soil of his home land again, Aragorn could feel the longing to do just that practically radiating from his guardian. "Maybe you'll change your mind."

"Maybe," Legolas smiled, clearly lying to appease his ward.

For a while longer they sat in deep silence, which for once proved not to be uncomfortable. Legolas found himself lost in memory and Aragorn was mulling over the story he had just been told.

Once more, it was Legolas who uncharacteristically broke the quiet by saying, "It is getting late; you should get some sleep."

"So should you. I can take the first watch if you like." His guardian seemed weary, wearier than Aragorn had seen him look in a long time. The retelling of his past horrors seemed to have drained him, dulling even his eyes in the brightness of the candlelight.

"Thank you, but there is no danger in Lothlorien anymore. No need to take watches tonight."

"If you're sure."

Legolas nodded certainly – sure that his knowledge of this world at least was sound - and climbed stiffly up to his feet, feeling very much as if he had been sitting there for days rather than just minutes. "You can sleep in the bed – it's a little dusty but it'll be comfortable than the floor. I'll take the couch."

"I've never slept in a real bed before. The best I ever got with the Rangers was a straw mattress."

"At long last I'm one up on the Rangers," Legolas quipped dryly.

"What if I fall off during the night?" Aragorn asked uncertainly as he too got up from the table.

Chuckling quietly at the thought, Legolas answered, "Then at least you will provide me with some small amount of amusement this night."

"That is not funny," Aragorn told him sternly, going towards the bedroom door with a scowl etched on his features.

"Sleep well, Aragorn."

"Goodnight."

Once Aragorn had retreated into the bedroom and the door was closed between, Legolas moved with weary slowness to perch himself on the edge of the dusty table and ran a trembling hand over his eyes at the same time releasing the shaky breath that had been building in his chest ever since he had made the foolishly impulsive decision to tell his charge about his dark, painful past.

On the one hand, it was strangely liberating to know that it was all out in the open at long last, that he had vocalised at least a portion of that which had changed his life so terribly, but on the other it had been the most difficult thing he'd had to do since taking that path leading far away from an Orc-infested Mirkwood.

He was more certain than ever now that Aragorn, even if he could not fully appreciate the bitter intricacies of the carefully censored tale he had been told, would not blame him for his cowardly actions thirty years ago. The boy would remain at the side of his mentor regardless.

After Legolas had been forced to flee his home, the world in which he had found himself all alone and completely friendless had turned dark and inhospitable. Everything he had owned, everything he'd ever known, had been lost.

But that would not happen again. No longer did he wander up and down the same stretch of road all on his own. No longer was he isolated, lost without a purpose and without hope.

As it had so often in the past six years, the prospect of having Aragorn by his side, as much as the stubborn, masochistic part of his mind hated to admit it, comforted Legolas immensely. Despite his endlessly annoying questions and unpredictable mood changes, compared to every other thing in the Elf's chaotic life, Aragorn remained reassuringly steadying. To have something he could rely on was what kept Legolas going.

Straightening out, Legolas scoffed at himself. He could hardly believe he was thinking of Aragorn in this charitable way. Usually he longed to shut the boy up or to get away from him and divest himself of the mound of responsibility that came along with the future king.

Worn out from the long day of thoroughly unsettling discoveries, both physical and emotional, Legolas got wearily to his feet and blew out the nearly burnt-out candle, plunging the room into darkness. Waste was no to be abided in this world of scarce resources and few comforts, not even when one desired the light of the flames to chase away the demons ever tormenting.

Before retiring for the night to the relative comfort of the dusty sofa though, Legolas went into the bathroom, pushed the stiff door partially closed for privacy and started to slowly undress. His old, ripped clothes were stiff, caked in weeks of mud and filth, and even though he never liked the feeling of being so exposed, unable to run at a moment's notice, the sensation of being free from the reeking, restricting clothing was relieving enough for him to breathe a sigh.

The water that Aragorn had used earlier to cleanse himself was stone cold by now and murky with the months of accumulated dirt the boy had washed off himself but Legolas didn't bother to refresh it. He washed off his body with rapid, none too gentle movements, pleased for the darkness of the bathroom so that he would not have to see the wasted muscles that now made up his once toned-to-warrior-perfection body. As he finished rinsing off the remainder of the soap he'd doused himself in, another familiar pang of pain shot up through his stomach and he leant forward, bracing himself against the cracked basin for support.

"Legolas," a timid voice called out to him and Legolas' head snapped up in shock to find Aragorn stood in the doorway, partially obscured in the dark but watching nonetheless.

Realising that he didn't have a scrap of clothing on, Legolas made a dive for the damp towel the boy had left behind but misjudged the movement and instead tripped over the clothes he'd carelessly dropped on the floor after undressing. Grabbing a nearby shelf in an effort to keep himself upright, and in the process knocking several bottles of scented liquids over to smash on the floor, Legolas heard the boy rush forward to help.

"I'll get it for you," Aragorn offered quickly, picking up the towel off the edge of the bath where Legolas had hung it earlier. "Here." He handed the threadbare towel to Legolas, who took it with some reluctance then quickly wrapped it around himself, even though his modesty had already been rendered moot. "Are you alright?"

"I told you to go to bed," Legolas snapped angrily, turning his head slightly in the direction of the boy still stood close to him.

"I had to use the bathroom again. I didn't know if I should go outside or not. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Well, you did," the Elf shouted at him, unrestrained for once.

"I'm sorry." Aragorn looked down from the Elf's face, for some reason embarrassed by Legolas' icy blue stare now fixed witheringly upon him. "Should I go outside, then?" he asked quietly, still uncertain.

"No. Just give me a moment. Don't go wandering off on your own."

"Alright." The boy backed out of the room, closing the door behind him, glad to be away from the uncomfortable situation he had inadvertently walked in on.

Once he heard the door click closed behind the boy, Legolas slumped again. Anger overwhelmed him but with no greater outlet available at present, he settled for slamming his fist into the sink to expel his fury at the humiliating interruption. The pain of the action stunned him briefly but he didn't dwell on it after he'd flexed his fingers to ensure he'd done no damage. Instead, he picked up his clothes and quickly dressed himself, not even bothering to dry himself off.

"Legolas?" Aragorn's voice called from the other side of the door.

"One more minute."

Aragorn leaned back against the wall with a sigh. He didn't know what to make of all this. One minute, Legolas was coming clean to him about every detail from his troubled past and the next he was being shut out entirely. It was all dreadfully confusing and frustration stirred in his heart. He'd thought that maybe tonight might have proved a turning point between them, that maybe now Legolas would trust him more. Clearly he was wrong.

He didn't get a chance to ponder on it any further as the door opened to reveal Legolas, hair dripping wet and wearing his old, filthy clothes – shirt and trousers – but still with nothing on his feet.

"Legolas, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" the boy started, pushing himself away from the wall to approach his guardian.

"Go to the bathroom then go to bed," Legolas told him sharply, moving past the boy into the next room without sparing him a second glance. "Mind the broken glass."

"Can't I at least apologise without you cutting me off?"

"We can talk in the morning."

Sighing heavily at the realisation that he wasn't going to get any further with his guardian that night, Aragorn moved into the bathroom to take care of his needs. When he returned, he squinted through the darkness to find Legolas sat hunched forward on the sofa.

Tentatively, Aragorn called out to him, "Goodnight." He heard the sofa creak slightly, the fabric rustle in the quiet as Legolas shifted his position but the Elf made no attempt to reply so Aragorn didn't bother to push further. "See you in the morning."

"Aragorn, come here," an unsteady voice suddenly called, making Aragorn turn quickly towards him.

"Why?"

A beat followed, then, "Just come."

As Aragorn slowly approached, he saw Legolas' pale hand stretched out almost imploringly toward him. When he got close enough, Legolas laid the hand on Aragorn's back and guided him to sit close by his side on the dipping seat of the couch.

"I'm sorry," the Elf started quietly.

"No, I shouldn't have barged in on you like that. You deserve some privacy too."

Legolas chuckled softly and laid his arm around Aragorn's shoulders. "Sometimes, I admit, I still forget that I am no longer on my own," he said softly. "I am sorry for that."

"You don't have to be sorry," the boy answered in an equally quiet voice, resting his head against Legolas' shoulder in an unusual display of closeness, which the Elf not only allowed but surprisingly encouraged. "You must miss your family, miss having them near."

"Yes."

"Did…Did they get out of Mirkwood before…?"

"No. My father was my only living family in the final days and he…he died in battle."

"Was he a warrior too?"

Legolas nodded with a gentle smile on his face. "One of the greatest. He was brave and strong and he fought until the end."

"Just like you," Aragorn said, seemingly half asleep. He was tried and warm and so very comfortable resting against his guardian, protected in the bubble of safety that Legolas had always provided.

"No." Legolas shook his head thoughtfully. "I got out."

The words fell upon silence though, as Aragorn had already fallen asleep against him and he was truly glad for it, because tears were now falling sparingly from the Elf's tired eyes and he didn't want to be seen like this by the child he had raised to think of him as strong.

For a long while, Legolas sat silent and still, allowing the memories to wash over him again as he listened to the comforting sound of Aragorn snoring quietly at his side. Eventually though, Legolas snapped out of his reverie and looked down at his young charge. The boy remained sound asleep and Legolas was reluctant to disturb him when he was so peaceful, so he carefully lifted him into his arms, worried by just how difficult the simple action was for him, then carried him into the bedroom where he laid him on the bed and covered him in a blanket.

"Sleep well, child."

Now that he was well and truly alone, Legolas laid down wearily on the couch, dragging a blanket to cover himself even though it was really too warm to be necessary. Staring up at the dark ceiling, Legolas tried to lull himself into sleep but the pangs in his empty stomach had returned, bringing with them the feeling of nausea and discomfort and memories continued to run through his mind and he knew already that he would get little rest this night. Rolling over onto his side and wrapping his arms securely around his middle, Legolas closed his eyes and prayed morning would come quickly.

**OIOI**

Aragorn woke to darkness and for a fleeting moment he panicked, remembering where he was sleeping that particular night. The thought of resting upon a raised platform had not meant for the most peaceful night's sleep and now he had woken he had to grab at the posts on either side of the bed to make certain to himself that he wasn't going to fall the couple of feet to the floor.

Once Aragorn had assured himself that he wasn't going to go crashing painfully to the ground, he looked around himself a little more calmly only to discover that the rather embarrassing reason it was so dark was that he was buried beneath his blanket. Throwing it off himself in near disgust at his foolishness and immensely glad that Legolas had not been there to witness his moment of wholly unnecessary panic, the boy found that it was actually daylight again and that dull grey sunlight filtered through the gaps in the boarded-up windows, illuminating the room he'd stayed in that night.

Climbing gratefully off the bed with the fervent hope that he wouldn't have to endure another night of restlessly fearing for his safety, Aragorn padded barefoot across the dusty wooden floor towards the door, not wanting to disturb Legolas if he was still asleep in the next room. When he opened the door a crack though, he found Legolas already up and moving around, stuffing the essentials he'd collected the evening before into one of their bags, which lay wide open on the table.

"You're up early," Aragorn said when it appeared that Legolas had not yet noticed his presence.

"Actually," Legolas smiled over at him, "you're up late. It's mid-afternoon already."

"Oh. You let me sleep in." A rarity in itself as Legolas liked to be up at the crack of dawn and ensured his ward was up at the same time too.

"Yes."

Back to one-word answers, Aragorn thought dryly. So much for trust. Going to the table and running his fingers in abstract patterns through the thick layer of dust, broken now in places after their conversation the night before, the young man asked tentatively, "Are you alright?"

"Of course. Why would I be anything but?" Legolas asked, not even slowing in his actions.

"I mean, after last night."

Pausing at the table, Legolas met Aragorn's concerned gaze and smiled gently at it. "Yes, Aragorn; I am fine, thank you." He clapped the boy on the shoulder then said, "Help me pack some of this up."

Aragorn nodded and started transferring clothes and food from the table into their packs. For a moment they worked in near-companionable silence but Aragorn was quick to break it.

"I am sorry," the boy told his guardian softly.

"For what? Surely you haven't gotten into trouble going from the door to the table," Legolas chuckled in return.

"No, I just meant, I'm sorry for everything. Everything that happened to you…before…"

"It is not your fault."

Exasperated, Aragorn sighed, "You know what I mean."

"I do," Legolas smiled gently, sincerely, still amazed at the compassion the boy who already carried so much weight on his shoulders displayed so freely towards him in spite of all his weaknesses revealed. "And thank you, Aragorn, for your concern and…well…" Legolas cleared his throat uncomfortably, trying to come out with those words so difficult to speak to his ward. "Thank you for listening. I have never told another of…of those final days in my home."

"My father always told me: 'A problem shared is a problem halved,'" the young man stated with a certain amount of pride.

"A wise man, your father."

"He was," Aragorn mused. "He was right about so many things."

Legolas stepped forward and laid his hand gently on the man's arm. "He would have been very proud, Aragorn."

"I hope so." A thick silence followed as both boy and Elf became lost in thought for a moment. As ever, it was Aragorn who got bored with it first and broke the quiet. "So, uh, what do we do now? Do we keep searching Lothlorien? Maybe Galadriel remains nearby but out of the city."

"I don't think so. We need to move on."

"To where?"

Continuing to neatly pack their bags, Legolas confessed, "I am not sure yet. We'll work something out, but in the meantime we should keep moving."

"We could wait another day if you wanted though," Aragorn posed the possibility hesitantly. "If you didn't feel like moving on immediately, I mean."

"Why would I want to stay another day?" Legolas asked with a chuckle, seeming not to see the obvious as Aragorn did.

"I thought you might want to take a couple of days to rest."

Halting again in his actions, Legolas smiled kindly and, much to Aragorn's intense surprise, pulled him into a loose hug, patting his back in what Aragorn thought the Elf probably considered to be a parental gesture, perhaps not realising how unbelievably awkward it felt. Aragorn stood somewhat self-consciously in the clumsy embrace, not quite knowing how to react to it. For all their closeness recently, Legolas had never willingly initiated such close contact between them. When he'd been younger, Aragorn had often taken refuge in Legolas' arms and he'd always felt protected there, but he'd never once been pulled into a proper hug by the Elf.

"You are a good boy, Aragorn," Legolas whispered praise in the young man's ear.

"Uh, thank you," Aragorn replied uncertainly, barely managing to force a smile onto his face.

After another uncomfortable moment for the human teenager, Legolas pulled away from him with a small smile of encouragement, as if thanking him for his patience and gripped his arms tightly, staring into uncertain grey eyes.

"I appreciate your concern for my well-being, Aragorn, but I do not need to sit around this place mulling over the past. It is best that we keep travelling."

"But you said that it was safe here."

"I believe it is but I'm not taking any unnecessary risks. Besides, there's nothing more we can do here."

"Alright. I'll get my shoes on then we can go whenever you're ready."

"Good," Legolas nodded firmly, finally widening the gap between them. At being what he considered to be a proper distance from his companion, Aragorn felt a little guilty for being so relieved to be parted from the Elf. He liked his guardian, liked that Legolas now trusted him enough to at least partially confide in him, and yet sometimes the Elf was just too intense for ease, especially in light of what he had just learned about his troubled mentor.

"On our way out of the city we'll go around some of the houses again, see if we can pick anything else up that might be of use to us."

"Legolas?"

"Yes?" the Elf sighed heavily; at last, it seemed having reverted back to his old self. Once again, he was annoyed by the prospect of a flurry of questions from the boy under his charge.

With a smile, Aragorn moved towards the bedroom door. "Nothing. I'll ask you later."

"I'll look forward to it," the Elf deadpanned under his breath.

**To Be Continued…**


	16. The Hunter And The Prey

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: THANK YOU to everyone who has reviewed, or added this story to their alerts/favourite. I really appreciate it and I hope you enjoy this next chapter.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 16 – The Hunter And The Prey**

**OIOI**

**Six Years Later…**

"Legolas!" Aragorn screamed over the roar of the driving rain. "Legolas!" It was impossible to see any kind of distance ahead of him through the haze of water pouring relentlessly from the raging, thunderous black skies overhead. The lightning, although providing only a fleeting streak of white light to illuminate the land around him, offered Aragorn no momentary insight into his missing mentor's whereabouts.

Legolas' orders, firm and non-negotiable, had been to keep running no matter what and for a long while they had both done just that but it wasn't long before Aragorn had found himself running alone. Deciding that this was one of those incidences where he considered it appropriate to blatantly ignore whatever Legolas had ordered him to do, Aragorn was currently racing back the way he had come through the sludge that now consisted of mud and filth washed from the surrounding area by the storm.

"Legolas!" It was dangerous, he knew, to be running back along the same path, shouting carelessly into the face of the Enemy but he would not leave his mentor behind. Between them, they were good fighters but Aragorn still did not like the idea of them getting separated; he liked it even less now that Legolas had drilled the idea into his head hours ago when they had first engaged the armed Orc patrol that they should stick together to stand a better chance of survival.

Aragorn ran with caution, knowing he couldn't afford to fall now; there were too many hostiles around willing to pounce upon the weak. Despite his care, the risk was great as the path on which he was now running was perilously slippery.

"Legolas!" the man yelled desperately; panic beginning to hammer ever harder in his chest. "Legolas!"

Suddenly, Aragorn stopped dead when the sound of growling, shouting Orcs drifted through the weather to reach his ears. Clutching his sword tighter in his hand, Aragorn paused for a moment, tossing his head from side to side in the vain hope of seeing something in the darkness, trying to decide whether to hide or carry on searching for his missing mentor.

He came to the conclusion that he could not attack any large number of Orcs without backup and he would be of absolutely no use to Legolas if he ended up dead due to his foolishness. So he abandoned the muddy trail and stumbled into the maze of stripped-bare trees. He ran a little way off the path then skidded to a halt behind a particularly large trunk.

Breathing heavily, Aragorn squinted through the driving rain just as the rows of Orcs came marching by. They carried torches high in the air to light their way, uncaring whether they were spotted. As they moved past, Aragorn searched their disordered ranks for Legolas. To his immense relief, he saw no obvious flash of bright steel or golden hair indicating that Legolas being held hostage was amongst them.

"Damn it, Legolas," he breathed angrily, shifting up into a crouch.

Abruptly, strong hands grabbed Aragorn from behind, one securing him around the chest, the other clamping firmly over his mouth so he couldn't call out the alarm. Panicked, Aragorn struggled in the strong grasp, clawing at the attacking hands.

"Will you stop struggling," a familiar voice snapped in irritation, low and dangerous.

"Legolas?" Aragorn asked, his question muffled by the hand that remained over his mouth.

"Keep quiet," the Elf whispered harshly in his ear.

In reply, Aragorn shrugged heavily and muttered, "Let me go then."

Legolas let out an amused chuckle but released Aragorn as requested. "I told you to run."

"I did." The young man turned to face the Elf now that he was free, relieved to discover that he was seemingly unharmed. "You said you were right behind me. Where did you go?"

"Nowhere. Come on, let's get out of here," Legolas told him, going to stand.

"Wait, what about the Orcs?"

"There are too many for just the two of us to engage."

"But this was your idea in the first place!"

"Perhaps I was a little overly ambitious on this occasion."

"So, we're just going to let them go? We've been following them for three days. You dragged me all the way through this dead forest for nothing," Aragorn ground out, remembering to keep his voice low even though the Orcs were moving away from them by now.

"Put it down to experience," the Elf told him flippantly.

"Experience?"

"A lesson in forest warfare." Impatient with his ward's arguing, Legolas took his arm and dragged him reluctantly to his feet. "Come on, you've killed enough Orcs for tonight."

With a heavy sigh, Aragorn nodded in agreement. His sword, stolen from an abandoned house he and Legolas had searched just a couple of months ago, was indeed stained with enough black blood for now. Orcs were crawling all over these lands; it would not be difficult to find more if the need presented itself. There was time yet to slake his lust for the slaughter of the foul creatures allied to Mordor.

Legolas led his ward deftly through the towering trees, heading in the opposite direction to the disordered ranks of the Enemy to avoid further confrontation. The rain had by now thoroughly drenched them, making their goal strangely moot, but they nevertheless moved quickly in the search for shelter. Legolas ran ahead, leading Aragorn nimbly through the barren forest almost as if he knew where he was going.

One second, Aragorn was running along full pace behind the Elf and then the next a deep, sharp pain shot up his back and he tripped, falling to the sodden ground with a cry.

"Aragorn!" Legolas shouted, already hauling the man up off the ground where he was knelt in shock, well aware of the pounding feet of the Orcs, having been attracted by the man's impulsive cry of pain, now hurrying towards them. "Come on," Legolas encouraged, throwing Aragorn's arm over his shoulders and wrapping his own arm around the man's waist for extra support whilst using his free hand to hold onto his knife, praying they could get out of this without a fight.

The rain, that Aragorn had earlier branded a curse upon their hunt, now became a blessing, for whilst Legolas could see no more than a few feet in front of him, it also meant that the Orcs were unable to easily spot them, giving them a chance to escape from the lumbering, largely unskilled monsters on their trail.

By Legolas' side, Aragorn stumbled along, partially held up by his Elven companion.

Aragorn didn't seem to feel the full extent of the pain at first. The pounding rain, almost solid and freezing against his skin, numbed the area of hurt that had stung initially but faded rapidly. Still, he was stunned at what had just happened. His mind had gone oddly blank. All he knew for certain was that his legs had to keep moving, that he had to keep running; this was what he heard Legolas continuously telling him, as if trying to drill into his muddled mind a new mantra for their increasingly ill-fated journey.

Once Legolas felt they had gained sufficient ground on their enemy, he abruptly changed course, literally dragging Aragorn down a slope partially sheltered by trees and skidded to a halt in the mud, confident that the rain would quickly wash away any signs of the route they had taken before the Orcs could catch sight of them. He pulled Aragorn down to his knees as gently as he could and pressed him back against the muddy embankment to ensure that he was hidden.

Sure that they were well enough hidden for the time being, Legolas dropped his weapons and turned his full attention to the young man breathing heavily at his side. It was obvious even to one with little training in the art of healing that Aragorn was in shock.

When Legolas went to prise Aragorn's jacket and shirt apart though, the man grabbed his arm and tried to shove him away.

"Get off!" Aragorn shouted above the sound of the rain.

"I am trying to help you."

"Let go." Aragorn struck out at the Elf, panic overwhelming reason for a brief moment.

Snatching Aragorn's arm to stay any further protests, Legolas pressed his free hand to the man's cheek, forcing him to look him in the eye. "Hey! Calm down," the Elf demanded in a strong tone. "I need you to calm down so that I can help you."

Clearly this tough method worked, as Aragorn nodded slowly, finally listening to what the Elf was telling him.

Now that he was able to look properly at the wound, Legolas was satisfied that it was not life-threatening. Nodding, the Elf assured, "Alright, it's not too bad."

Gritting his teeth and shifting away from Legolas' hands now that his examination was complete, Aragorn ground out, "Are you sure because it hurts like…"

"You'll be fine." Legolas removed his pack and delved around inside to find one of his shirts, off of which he tore the sleeve to use as a bandage. Pressing down hard, unfortunately drawing a yelp of pain from the young man, Legolas told him, "Keep the pressure on this to stem the bleeding."

As Legolas pulled Aragorn's shirt closed, he heard the harsh sounds of the Orcs shouting out the order to find the two runaways. Legolas sat up straight and knew he had to make a snap decision.

"We have to go," he told Aragorn in haste, pulling the top of his pack securely closed once more.

"Go where?"

To Aragorn it seemed an utterly ridiculous suggestion to start moving again in the wake of his injury and with a significant number of Orcs out there still baying for their blood but he awkwardly pulled his jacket together all the same. He trusted his guardian with his life, after all.

"I don't know but we can't stay here; it's not safe." Legolas swung his pack over his shoulder and retrieved his knife. "Can you walk?"

Realising that he didn't have a whole lot of choice in the matter, Aragorn nodded. "I think so."

Legolas got up and peered over the muddy ledge, trying to keep his footing on the slippery slope, to check to see if the Orcs were anywhere close by. The rain was beginning to ease off by now but it still offered some cover. He could not see any Orcs and could only hear their gruff calls in the distance. But the same rain that now aided him and Aragorn, also aided the Orcs he realised. Aragorn was perhaps correct when he cursed the weather.

Confident that they could move safely, Legolas took Aragorn's arm and instructed, "On your feet."

Hauled to stand up, Aragorn leaned against the Elf to gain his balance and waited a moment for the dizziness to pass.

"Come on." Legolas slung Aragorn's arm over his shoulders again and guided him back through the trees. Despite the boy's stumbling gait, Legolas moved quickly, nimbly leading the way with caution through the wood. One part of him was concentrating on Aragorn's well-being but the majority of his mind was focused on where exactly the Orcs were. He was prepared to fight if necessary but with Aragorn wounded, he'd rather avoid it if at all possible.

Running as fast as they could through the forest, or what remained of the decimated forest anyway, it didn't take the two vastly superior beings long to escape from the vicinity of the Orcs. Despite the distance they had managed to put between them and their prey-turned-predators, Legolas pushed them further onwards. He never allowed himself to become complacent around the creatures of Mordor, having had too much experience with them in the past.

"Legolas!" Aragorn gasped after a while.

"Earlier I saw some caves; we'll head for those." Legolas slowed, laying his free hand against Aragorn's chest to steady him. "Can you make it?"

Aragorn moved his eyes, shining with worry, to Legolas. "I don't like that you asked me that."

"Excuse me?"

"You're concerned for me."

"I don't understand."

Taking a moment to regain his breath, Aragorn shook his head and said as if Legolas should already know, "When you're concerned it concerns me."

"Oh. My apologies."

"So, caves?"

"Yes. It isn't far," Legolas assured as they briskly walked through the thinning, empty trees. "And you are going to be just fine. No need to be concerned."

"Thank you." When Legolas looked across at his human charge in confusion, Aragorn explained, "For lying to me."

Chuckling softly, the Elf said, "I would not lie about this, Aragorn."

The caves, as Legolas had rightly assured him, were not far, and Aragorn was relieved when he was at last able to sit down. Out of the rain, Legolas pulled their bags off his shoulders and laid them in the corner, for once ignoring the usual procedure of ensuring everything was safe and dry. Aragorn was far more important than any possessions they carried.

More thoroughly this time, Legolas examined Aragorn's wound, bending close to the young man so he could properly see the injury in the semi-darkness of the cave. Once satisfied that his initial prognosis that Aragorn was not in any immediate danger had indeed been correct, Legolas placed a bandage, made from more fabric of the tunic he'd destroyed earlier around the man's midriff, trying it off tightly to keep pressure on the wound.

"There. All done," Legolas announced, patting the man's shoulder reassuringly once he'd finished. "You just need to rest now."

Wincing as Legolas helped him to replace his shirt and jacket, Aragorn asked, "Shouldn't we keep moving?"

"We're fine here."

Aragorn frowned into the darkness of the caves at this. "But you said never to remain in one place for too long while on a hunt," he pointed out, remembering the numerous times in the past when Legolas had drilled that particular important lesson into his mind.

"It will be daylight soon."

Once more, this confused Aragorn, as, after the vile pollution that spilled continuously from the Mountain of Fire in the dark land of Mordor had first clouded the skies, the Orcs, who had once feared and shunned the light of the sun, no longer had to hide in the shadows or were restricted to the dark of the night. Aragorn did not say anything though, as Legolas had already turned away to stuff their things back into their packs. Instead, the man lay back on the ground, disguising a moan of pain. He had never been so badly injured before. Hungry, tired, complaining about how his feet hurt, yes, but he'd never been stabbed before and he found that it wasn't a pleasant experience.

"Legolas…?"

Through the darkness, Legolas advised him in a soft voice, "Just go to sleep."

At the gentle instruction, Aragorn found himself feeling suddenly extremely tired. Before he realised it, his eyelids had dropped closed and he gratefully drifted away from the pain of the waking world.

Legolas watched as his young charge succumbed to sleep with an enormous swell of relief. Trying to remain calm in front of the man while panic beat hard in his chest was more difficult than he had ever imagined it would be. Normally, he took great comfort in the fact that Aragorn felt guilt when he worried about him but in this case he didn't want the boy subjected to this kind of emotion when he was already injured and upset. Hiding his anxiety though had been hard.

But now that Aragorn was sleeping and unaware of his mentor's disquiet, Legolas bowed his head, despairingly covering his face with horribly shaking hands. He'd seen so much pain in the world since the rise of Sauron that over the decades it had become almost commonplace – he'd even lived with the physical pain of grief in his own heart for nearly thirty years after the fall of his family and home – but he had forgotten, it seemed, during his long years of isolation and loneliness, how horrific it felt to watch someone beloved get hurt. He'd rather bear the pain himself than watch helpless as Aragorn suffered in front of his eyes.

He knew that Aragorn was correct; it was indeed dangerous to remain in this cave whilst Orcs continued to roam around the forest searching for their missing prey but he would not risk Aragorn further harm by hurrying away before he was certain the man could handle the pace they'd be forced to keep up in order to get away.

Still concerned about being discovered by the Orcs in such a vulnerable position, Legolas climbed quietly to his feet, hunched over so as not to bang his head on the fairly low ceiling of the cave, and peered outside.

Although he could no longer instinctively sense the time of day as he had once been able, from the faint grey light just beginning to creep across the heavily clouded sky, he deduced that dawn was indeed almost upon them as he'd reassured Aragorn moments before. With his white-handled knife held tightly in his hand, Legolas crept from the mouth of the cave and back out into the rain that still feel steadily.

He did not wander far for fear of leaving Aragorn unattended for too long whilst he remained defenceless, but nevertheless, he managed to scout the nearby area and satisfied himself that the Orcs chasing them earlier had not tracked them back to this network of caves. For now, by sheer good fortune, they were safe.

Relieved beyond measure that no confrontation was imminent, Legolas returned to Aragorn and began to peel of his own uncomfortably dripping wet clothes. In the darkness, he shivered slightly. It was still too dangerous to start a fire despite the chill. Although confident that the Orcs were no longer on their trail, Legolas was not going to tempt fate by foolishly risking attracting them back. He could handle the discomfort.

Once he'd removed his sopping jacket and shirt, Legolas pulled out the two blankets they always carried and laid one over Aragorn before wrapping the other tightly around himself. It provided at least a little warmth to his chilled body.

Legolas sat in silence, thinking warm thoughts in an attempt to ward off the biting cold. Soon though, his mind drifted instead back to Aragorn and his eyes moved toward the man, dimly lit now by the light of day. No, right then he did not seem a twenty-one year old man in Legolas' eyes, but rather a young boy, vulnerable, in need of care and protection, an echo of that nervous child Legolas had rescued from the evil clutches of the Orcs all those years ago. Things had been remarkably simple in those first couple of years with the boy at his side. All Aragorn had required in the beginning was the most basic care and was satisfied with simply walking up and down the safe and familiar Old Forest Road that Legolas had found so much peace in walking. But the world as it now was had a tendency to change people - as Legolas knew all too well. After his encounter with those vicious cannibals and Orcs as a child, Aragorn had wanted to change, to become more independent, to defend himself. And what right did Legolas have to deter him from that course?

Legolas could not see into the future as the Wise amongst his race once could have. Every single day he lived with the uncertainty of what the next day might bring. At any moment, the man could be left all by himself without his protector. As he watched the young man sleeping to recover his wounds as best he could before moving on, Legolas wondered if this was how Arathorn, the boy's ill-fated father, had felt raising his son all on his own – hopelessly inadequate. If so, Legolas did not envy the position of the father.

"Legolas?" Aragorn's voice startled the Elf from his thoughts and when he came back to the present, he was startled to find the cave now saturated in the grey light of day. He had been lost in reverie for longer than he intended.

"How do you feel?" Legolas asked, shifting up to sit on his knees, leaning forwards so he could see the man.

"Alright, I suppose." Aragorn pulled himself into a sitting position with a wince of pain and asked, "How long did I sleep?"

"Only a couple of hours." Legolas leaned over, holding out the canteen and offering, "Water?"

"Thank you."

"I wish I could provide you with something for the pain," Legolas said as the man greedily gulped down the water.

Once he'd had his fill, Aragorn shook his head. "It's not that bad."

"You know that I would if I could."

"I know," the young man smiled sincerely. In the dim light coming from the mouth of the cave, Aragorn could see the despair shining in deep blue eyes, even as Legolas attempted to conceal it from him. He hated seeing his guardian so worried. "Legolas," he said quietly and reached forward to lay his cold hand over Legolas', "I'm alright."

Legolas looked up, offering Aragorn a small, slightly too shaky smile. Damn that boy for knowing him so very well.

Clearing his throat, Legolas patted Aragorn's hand and said, "I thought we could stay here for another couple of hours, get some rest then move on this afternoon. We'll have at least some protection in the daylight to get a fair distance from this place just in case there are any stray Orcs loitering around."

Rather liking the return to certainty and command in the Elf's voice, Aragorn nevertheless decided it was only right to offer an argument. It was, after all, almost expected of him by now and he didn't want to disappoint his guardian.

"I am feeling fine, Legolas, we can leave now."

"No doubt we could but we're not going to," Legolas told him with unshakeable sternness, glaring up at the young man. "Rest while you can."

Even though he rolled his eyes in faked annoyance, Aragorn laid back gratefully. "If that's what you want."

After Aragorn had closed his eyes, weary in spite of his protests, Legolas couldn't help but smile. He and Aragorn may not have been linked by blood but in other ways they were remarkably similar: stubborn and proud, one always seeking to protect the other and both finding these qualities exceptionally infuriating. All these traits Legolas had inherited from his own father and it seemed that he had now passed them unwittingly onto the young man in his care. Ironic, that he had left such an impression on the human child when he had initially been so reluctant to take on the responsibility of raising another being. If only he could have been certain that it was a good thing that he was influencing the human so; he did not particularly like those qualities – or any qualities – in himself anymore so the thought of passing them on to another being was not necessarily a comfort to the Elf.

**To Be Continued…**


	17. The Master Knows

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed. I do try to answer them if they are signed but even if not I appreciate them immensely.**

**Enjoy the chapter.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 17 – The Master Knows **

Beneath their feet, the thick mud, churned up by the recent heavy rains, squelched uncomfortably and a couple of times, Legolas, his Elven heritage making him that much more sure-footed than his Human charge, had to reach out to keep the young man walking at his side from slipping over.

For two days now they had been travelling almost non-stop. Although Aragorn, his condition greatly improved after he'd been allowed some time to rest, had been eager to go after the Orc patrol that five days ago had gotten the better of them, Legolas had been insistent that he should not push himself too soon by doing anything so fool-hardy. Aragorn's wound had fortunately been minor and showed no sign of infection – always Legolas' biggest fear – but Legolas did not want to make it any worse by pushing him too hard. With the boy's health, he was taking no chances.

Having no other choice but to follow Legolas, Aragorn had agreed with the Elf's decision and they had been careful to avoid any kind of potentially damaging confrontation as they travelled.

"You know," Aragorn said as he carefully stepped over an elevated tree root while trying to avoid a deep puddle of mud on the other side of the path, "seeing as we're not hunting Orcs anymore…"

"Just for a while until you're back on top form," Legolas interrupted, glancing back.

Shooting the Elf a pointedly annoyed look, Aragorn continued, "I think we should move on."

"Leave the forest? I was thinking the very same thing."

"Really? I'm right for once," Aragorn smiled, steadying himself by laying his hand on a black tree trunk when the ground slipped beneath his feet.

Legolas' hand shot out to take his elbow for support just in case he couldn't regain his footing. "Don't get used to it. I'm sure it's just a fleeting moment."

Ignoring the quip, Aragorn continued onwards, mumbling, "Finally we can get out of this miserable place."

The Elf chuckled to himself. "Finally the end to your complaining is within sight."

"I heard that."

"I know you did."

"You would be miserable too if you couldn't stand up straight or even…"

Aragorn was cut off when he quite literally crashed right into the back of the solid Elf, who had stopped dead on the path in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Aragorn asked in surprise, stepping back and putting his hands on Legolas' tense shoulders to gain his attention. Only then did he realise that this was actually quite an odd way for Legolas to have stopped suddenly and he deduced that Legolas was in fact listening for something. Suddenly brought to attention himself, Aragorn looked around, searching for something unusual in their wooded surroundings. Of course, to him everything seemed as it should be. Stepping carefully over to Legolas' side and seeing a familiar mixture of confusion and concentration etched on his face, Aragorn asked in a whisper, "What is wrong?"

In a quiet voice to match the man's, Legolas answered, "Orcs, I think."

"Close?" Aragorn asked, his eyes immediately darting around the forest.

A frown creased Legolas' brow. "I am not certain."

This confused Aragorn. Legolas was very rarely uncertain when it came to such things. He had enough experience at being around Orcs and the patrols of Shadow to be able to tell how close they were and roughly estimate their numbers. That he wasn't sure worried Aragorn a little.

"Legolas?"

Suddenly comprehension dawned and disquiet replaced concentration on Legolas' face. He turned away from Aragorn and went to move off the trail, saying, "Uruk-hai. We must leave this place immediately."

Even though he followed the Elf off the trail, arms outstretched to his sides in order to keep his precarious balance, Aragorn asked urgently, "Are they close?"

"Yes, too close for comfort."

Aragorn was no longer in the least bit surprised at Legolas' panic and sudden need to put as much distance as possible between them and the fearsome Uruk-hai. The creatures were far more dangerous than any mindless Orcs they may have come across in the past. A sick blend of Orc and Goblin, the Uruks were larger, more wily and far more physically powerful than their smaller, less imposing counterparts and they held no fear of any other living thing on Middle Earth.

Over the years, Legolas and Aragorn had only ever seen one patrol of Uruk-hai and even then it was from a safe distance. Never had they engaged in battle with them – although Legolas had mentioned once that they had been present at the downfall of Mirkwood so Aragorn had to assume that at some point the Elf had fought the creatures and had obviously come out of the experience alive.

However, even if Aragorn had been on top form and uninjured, neither traveller would not have picked a fight with the huge beasts. So they did the only thing any sensible person would: they ran.

Legolas tried his best to lead them in a direction that took them safely away from the sound of pounding feet. They stalked as quietly as possible through the trees, now keeping off the main trail they had stuck to so far. It was taking them back once more into the dead forest but right then it was much more important that they avoid the Uruk-hai than get out from amongst the rotting trees that Aragorn despised so much.

"Are you alright?" Legolas called back, already out of breath from running.

Gasping for air himself, Aragorn answered, "Just great."

Worried about the young man running so hard in his injured state, Legolas suggested in a hasty whisper that they find a place to hide, hoping that the Uruks hadn't already caught their scents, and Aragorn eagerly agreed. Engaging was definitely a bad idea in his state.

Unfortunately, Legolas' ideal plan was not to be. A moment later, as they ran steadily through the slippery moss-covered tree roots searching for somewhere to hide away in the hope the Uruks would simply pass by them, a small black arrow thudded into one of the dead tree trunks at their side. Legolas startled, his head snapping around to search out the shooter. A solitary Uruk was standing notching another arrow to his short bow on a small mound, seemingly in no hurry, as if it knew that the two beings it was pursuing posed it no challenge or threat. The typical arrogance of the monsters of Mordor angered Legolas but although his anger was not misplaced in this case, Legolas knew fully well that he could not justify wasting precious arrows on one solitary Uruk.

"Go!" Legolas urged instead, pushing the boy forward.

As he ran, Legolas pulled his knives from his backpack. If he had to fight these terrible creatures then he would regardless of the risk to himself.

"That way," the Elf told the young man in a breathless whisper, nudging him towards a flat, empty space in the forest. If the Uruk-hai were going to attack and if they were forced to fight then Legolas was determined that it was going to be on his terms and not theirs. Any small advantage he must use if they had any chance of emerging victorious.

Coming to a skidding halt in the centre of the clearing, Legolas was already pulling from the bags weapons for Aragorn as the boy bent forwards, hands braced on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

"Here." Legolas shoved their spare knife into Aragorn's hand and the boy straightened up.

"We're going to fight them?" Aragorn asked incredulously, looking down at the knife in surprise.

"They're not like Orcs, they're armoured all over. Look for weaknesses in their armour, usually around the neck, the joints."

"You're really serious, aren't you?"

"Just fight as I have taught you. And stay close to me." When he noticed the apprehension in Aragorn's expressive grey eyes, Legolas laid his hand on the young man's shoulder and faked a soothing smile for his benefit. "We will be fine. We have faced worse odds."

"Maybe you have," Aragorn muttered, turning his worried gaze towards the trees, where now even he could hear the heavy sound of metal-plated pounding feet against the wet earth heading towards them.

Legolas did not especially want to recall those final days of his homeland but he did now try to remember how the warriors of Mirkwood had succeeded in killing the vicious Uruk-hai. Before being completely overwhelmed, the Elves had taken out their fair share of the creatures of Evil.

The sounds of the cumbersome creatures approach became louder and both Man and Elf took up a battle stance.

It wasn't much longer before the monsters emerged through the remnants of the dying trees. If Aragorn had been nervous about the confrontation before, then as the Uruks halted on the edges of the clearing, apparently sizing up their prey, he knew he must have looked positively terrified. Even though the two companions stood firm and tall in the face of the enemy, there were significantly more Uruks – Aragorn counted eleven in total.

As Aragorn shifted uneasily on his feet, wondering what was stopping the beasts from rushing forward and immediately attacking them – the wait was far worse – the Uruk-hai unexpectedly began to laugh.

When Aragorn looked to Legolas for an explanation as to this bizarre behaviour, he saw a frown marring the Elf's face. This obvious uncertainty in his guardian did not exactly fill Aragorn with confidence. The only consolation he had was that Legolas did not look ready to run away, as he himself was itching to do, shifting anxiously on his feet. The Elf stared unflinchingly at the line of Uruk-hai laughing at them. So, like his ancient mentor, Aragorn stood firm.

After a moment, one of the Uruks stepped forward. Whilst Aragorn took an involuntary step backwards, Legolas merely gripped his weapons, a white-handled knife in each hand, tighter, prepared for the inevitable attack.

"Hold your ground," Legolas told his young ward through the corner of his mouth.

Laughing rowdily, the Uruk who appeared to have designated himself the leader called out mockingly, "Yeah, Human, don't be scared of us." His companions found this taunt particularly funny. "And this…" The Uruk stepped closer still, staring with deep yellow eyes into Legolas' hard blue ones. "An Elf," the monster sneered, sniffing the air in disgust at the smell the creature of Light exuded. "Thought we'd wiped your kind clean off the earth."

Anger flared in Legolas' chest at the growled words but he said nothing, simply gripped his knife tighter in his hand. The creature, smarter than any Orc, was baiting him and he wasn't going to bite.

Whilst Legolas faced off with the huge monster, Aragorn kept his eyes on the other Uruks, fearing that they might use Legolas' apparent distraction to make their move against their prey. This was the first time he had ever seen the Uruk-hai up close, so he took the rare opportunity to note their forms – a useful thing considering that he would undoubtedly be fighting them in mere moments.

They were far bigger than any other creature of Mordor Aragorn had ever seen, standing at least a foot taller than Legolas. Bulky black bodies were sheathed in thick, heavy armour, dented after years of use in countless battles. Long, almost tusk-like sharp teeth protruded from their lips, stained and blackened. Luminous yellow eyes shone madly as they peered out beneath the thick metal helmets they wore, greedy for the fresh blood their noses caught scent of.

Whilst their leader stood staring Legolas down, the other Uruks remained agitated – ironically, very much like Aragorn himself. They seemed to be itching to start the fighting, it was what they had been bred for, after all. Growling deep in their throats, they made for menacing opponents.

"Legolas?" Aragorn asked in a low whisper, flicking his gaze momentarily towards the Elf.

The sound of the man's voice seemed to rouse Legolas from his thoughts and he glanced at the increasingly nervous boy at his side.

When Legolas turned defiantly back to the Uruk, the creature sneered at him in pleasure. "I smell fear. You reek of it."

Aragorn could not truthfully disagree with this statement but Legolas seemed to take exception, as he took a step closer, apparently not intimidated by the size difference that became more obvious this close to the creature.

Staring directly into shining yellow eyes, Legolas ground out, "I do not fear you."

Throwing its head back, the Uruk laughed loudly and soon uproarious laughter from all the creatures filled the forest, echoing around the withered trees. Aragorn winced at the noise but not so much as a flicker of emotion passed over Legolas' features.

"Is that so?" the Uruk growled fiercely once it had looked back down at the Elf. "I'm going to enjoy killing you. I haven't tasted sweet Elf-flesh in years."

That calm that had held Legolas back until now was cracked at the threat and anger shone blatantly in his eyes, which only served to amuse the leader of the creature to no end.

"Look at that, boys, the Elf's getting mad," the Uruk called back to its fellow soldiers, taunting the Elf before it. When the monster looked back to Legolas, its foul mouth open to bark out more insults, it was met by the sight – the last sight its brain would ever process – of furious silver and a deathly look of sheer rage.

Legolas' sharp blade sliced cleanly through thick, leathery flesh. The stunned silence was broken only by the heavy thud of the Uruk's head hitting the ground at its feet seconds before its body followed suit. Stunned, the other creatures could only stare in disbelief – their esteemed leader had just been outwitted by an Elf, lowest of all the low creatures that continued to walk the earth. Aragorn also gaped in horror and amazement at the disembodied head. Legolas had just killed an Uruk, one of the most fearsome of Sauron's minions, with seemingly minimal effort.

As all others in the clearing stared openly at the sheer audacity of the Elf, Legolas kept his eyes fixed on the line of Uruk-hai, his twin knives held securely in his hands ready for anything. Legolas had rarely felt such lust for death, not since he had rescued Aragorn from the cannibalistic humans bent on torturing their captive. Battle for him was ever a necessity, never a desire. But now that craving to be rid of the abominations, descended in the distant past from his own race after being twisted and mutilated, became overwhelming and he longed for a fight, to shed the tainted black blood of his enemies.

It did not take longer than a minute for the Uruks to recover themselves and for Legolas' wish for a fight to be fulfilled. Deep growls filled the air and the Uruk-hai, incensed by the slaughter of their leader, lunged forwards, weapons raised, blood-lust burning in their eyes.

"Don't be afraid," Legolas said softly to the quaking Aragorn before he too raised his weapons and met the creatures as they charged.

But Aragorn was afraid. It was inevitable that he should be. Despite all his experience and all the knowledge he had gained from his vastly experienced Elven tutor, he feared fighting this new, more powerful foe. He'd never seen a more fearsome creature created by the Dark Lord of Mordor. It was a taste of what kinds of horrors the Darkness was capable of creating – and no doubt there was far worse out there in the dark depths of Mordor that Legolas had never spoken to him of. Maybe the Elf himself didn't know all that the Shadow was capable of, or maybe he just feared scaring his young charge with the truth.

Having no other choice, however, Aragorn followed Legolas into the fight.

The Uruk-hai were completely different to the lesser Orcs Aragorn had grown used to fighting over the years. Stronger and bigger, they were far more difficult to kill. Although not as agile as goblins, nor as numerous as the Orcs, they had sheer brute force on their side and used it to their advantage, slamming hard into the two companions.

Legolas fought with crudeness equal to his adversaries, for once favouring a more direct approach as opposed to his normal precise, flourished movements. He slashed and hacked as the huge beasts swarmed around him and his young charge. Soon, both Man and Elf and the ground beneath their feet was coated in thick black blood as the creatures were one by one cut down, for although they had more strength, the two travellers were by far more wily and intelligent.

Eleven beasts fast became five thanks to the swift, strong strikes rained down on them but by that time Aragorn was beginning to tire. His knife wound, which had caused him almost no trouble at all when simply walking about, burned at the stretching and exertion of frantic battle. Caught up in the frenzy of the fight, Legolas did not feel the same kind of weariness; he was bolstered by adrenaline and his fighting was made all the better for it. Unfortunately, his lack of attention to anything but the massive black Uruk-hai all around him meant that he was not concentrating fully on the young man at his side so he failed to notice when Aragorn started flagging.

Although the young man had himself dispatched several Uruks, his limbs were beginning to feel heavy and his wound started to hurt even more. The creatures quickly sensed his weakness and began to abandon the intimidating Elf for the less powerful and more inexperienced human.

It was only when Legolas realised that, after running his knife across the throat of another Uruk he had been trying to bring down for a while now more or less decapitating the filthy slave of Sauron, he was only fighting one of the creatures. He looked around the clearing in surprise. To his left, Aragorn was being pushed back towards the devastated tree-line by the three remaining Uruk-hai. They were purposefully manoeuvring him back into the forest to regain their advantage and separate him from his Elven companion for an easier kill.

Legolas muttered an Elvish curse to himself in between parrying blows from the crudely rendered weapon of the tall beast. He had to get rid of this last persistent creature that pestered him so that he could go and help Aragorn.

Switching effortlessly from defence to offense, Legolas delivered a couple of hard blows to the Uruk attacking him but it was not easy to penetrate the thick metal armour of the creatures. Finding the weaknesses in the metal was a long process made all the harder by the sheer fury the Uruks continued to attack with.

Whilst Legolas was trying with increased urgency to dispatch his annoyingly persistent Uruk, Aragorn was all too aware that he was being purposefully removed from his guardian. He tried his best to prevent it, but he was out-numbered three-to-one and the Uruks had strength on their side, whereas he was tiring further with every bone-rattling strike.

Kicking the Uruk he was now fighting hard in the armoured abdomen, Legolas finally managed to gain the advantage and plunged his blood-slickened knives into the creature with so much force that both ran right through the armour, the thick, leathery hide, hideously deformed body and ended up protruding sickeningly from the Uruk's back.

Legolas did not linger to watch the life trickle from the beast, but rather withdrew his deadly weapons from the twitching Uruk and was immediately rushing toward his young, struggling charge.

Grabbing at thick Uruk armour from behind, Legolas dragged one of the attackers clear away from Aragorn. Tripping over its own big, clumsy feet, the Uruk barely had time to realise that it had been hauled away from the hotly contested prize, before a thick fountain of dark blood gushed from its slashed throat.

By now the clouds had grown darker in the heavy sky, casting even more of a foreboding shadow over the slaughter. This change in atmosphere, perhaps a result of the odds so rapidly becoming more even – it was now two against two – pushed the remaining servants of the Shadow to redouble their efforts.

When one of the two remaining Uruk-hai finally managed to get the upper hand over Aragorn the other peeled away from him to halt the Elf's approach.

Forced back hard against the rough trunk of a long-dead tree, Aragorn felt the Uruk grab his fighting arm and before he knew it, his wrist was slammed against the wood and the automatic response of dropping his weapon rendered him entirely defenceless.

A cruel grin split the leathery, heavily war-painted face of the Uruk. "Alone I have you at last."

The feeble struggle Aragorn put up proved predictably futile. He was too weary to make any real impact upon the far stronger creature. Looking past the Uruk for his saviour, Aragorn realised with a jolt of fear that he was all alone in this. Legolas was entangled in his own fight and couldn't help him right then.

"My master will be so pleased to see you…and kill you, Heir of Gondor."

For Legolas, listening to the growled words even as he fought, time seemed to come to a halt. Nothing else in the whole of Arda existed for a long moment. 'Heir'. The Uruks knew who Aragorn was. He didn't know how, but they knew.

An unexpected blow from the side jolted Legolas from his horrified panic and he raised his knives in defence just in time to deflect the weapon aimed at him.

Aragorn's own eyes widened at the Uruk's words and the creature registered his surprise. "A fine prize."

Then, to Aragorn's immense shock, the Uruk dropped the rusty sword it had been holding to the ground almost in pleasure and instead raised both clawed hands and wrapped them tightly around Aragorn's neck, pushing down so his air supply was brutally cut off.

Struggling was useless and he was entirely powerless to stop it as the life was slowly squeezed out of him.

Legolas saw what was happening and his desperation to reach Aragorn increased tenfold. If only he could dispose of this one Uruk preventing his intervention. Seeing Aragorn dying right before his eyes made adrenaline once more surge through his body and gave him the renewed strength to gain the upper hand over the Uruk attacking him with such savage ferocity. Obviously, it was trying very hard to keep Legolas occupied and away from Aragorn and its companion.

Aragorn was by now beginning to sag against the trunk he was pinned against. With his heart pounding increasingly hard in his chest, Legolas rammed the Uruk he was fighting in the face with the end of his knife handle, knocking the beast back away from him a couple of paces. Knowing fully well that time was running out for his young friend, Legolas abandoned the beast he was fighting and decided it best to take the risk and simply go help his charge, so he turned and went to dash towards the Uruk still choking the life from Aragorn.

He did not reach the man though. The bulk of the Uruk he'd foolishly left standing slammed into him from behind and both hit the ground hard. With the breath knocked from his lungs, Legolas nevertheless tried to kick off the bulky weight that pinned him down. He managed to push the heavy monster away from himself a little and awkwardly twist around so that they were now laid face to face. Only then did Legolas realise that his knives had been knocked from his hands. He was defenceless, just like his ward.

Kicking again, more viciously this time, at the snarling Uruk, Legolas pushed it off him and rolled to the side, managing to get onto his knees before it regained its own balance.

When the creature, blind with the sheer rage of battle, dived for him, Legolas threw a punch, catching the side of its leathery face. Legolas could have sworn he heard the bones in his hand crack upon the impact, although he curiously felt no pain as he leapt to his feet and wrapped one arm around the neck of the Uruk, twisting and breaking the thick, strong neck so the creature fell limply at his feet dead.

Having finally dispensed with the tenacious Uruk, Legolas ran over to Aragorn. Before he could get close enough to help though, the heavy creature with its claw-like fingers throttling the young human, sensed his approach and temporarily abandoned his attempts to kill the Man. It dodged the Elf's blow, aimed at its head, and ran.

After being released, Aragorn collapsed in a heap to the ground, coughing and spluttering for air.

Legolas crouched before him, concerned. "Look at me," he demanded in panic. "Breathe," he then encouraged, holding Aragorn up.

It took a long time – or at least it felt a long time to the worried Legolas – for Aragorn to heave in a deep breath, which was then followed by a bout of painful wheezing and coughing.

"Good," Legolas smiled in relief, catching Aragorn's hand as it groped for him amidst the harsh coughs wracking his thin frame. "Good. You're going to be fine now." He reached up to loosen the collar of Aragorn's shirt, taking note of the deep red marks, which would quickly transform into bruises, left behind by the Uruk's strong hands. Anger burned in Legolas' chest, much as it had done when he had killed that sadistic Human who had trapped Aragorn in his snare and attempted to violate him.

However, there was a bigger problem that suddenly occurred to Legolas and his eyes widened in fear. That Uruk knew all about Aragorn and it had escaped with its life, free to report back whatever it chose to its master.

"Stay here. Do not move," Legolas commanded, detaching his hand from Aragorn's and leaping up from the ground.

Aragorn wanted to demand to know what the Elf was doing, where he was going, why he was leaving him all alone, but when he tried to talk his throat tightened up further and he ended up bent over in the midst of a coughing fit. He could only watch as Legolas ran from his side, snatching up his white-handled knives from where they'd fallen in the mud as he went, and then disappear off into the naked trees. If only Aragorn had been able to chase after him, but he had no choice but to remain on his knees, gasping desperately for each breath.

Legolas ran as fast as his aching legs could carry him after the fleeing Uruk. Thankfully, the heavy creature made enough of a trail in the slippery mud that it was not at all difficult for Legolas to track its direction.

For such a heavy, cumbersome creature, the Uruk had made extraordinary progress through the wood.

"Come on, where are you?" Legolas muttered to himself as he pursued the fleeing creature.

With his body wearied from the battle, Legolas longed to pause for breath and to ease the burning sensation that was working its way through his all his tired limbs but all he could think about was getting at that Uruk, preventing it from returning to its master, whoever that may have been, and speaking of Aragorn. Perhaps the creature had been lying, provoking them in the heat of battle. But Legolas was not going to take that kind of risk when it came to Aragorn's life. He was going to hunt the bolting Uruk down and kill it no matter what it took.

As he raced through the maze of stripped tree trunks, Legolas realised it was growing darker. Night was beginning to fall. He had no idea where the rest of the day had gone but he knew he had to find the Uruk before it became completely impossible to track in the dark.

He needn't have worried though because a couple of minutes later his sharp hearing caught the sound of fast pounding footsteps ahead of him.

When he was close enough to the bulky beast, Legolas decided that tackling it to the ground to disable it was the best way to go, so he abandoned the usual grace of the Elves and slammed into the shocked Uruk with such force that both ended up sprawled on the muddy ground.

But the Uruk was not going down without a fight. It squirmed and fought against Legolas' all too slight weight. Having already tired himself, Legolas found it difficult to control the struggling creature beneath him. He desperately grabbed his knife from where it had fallen from his hand upon impact with the monster.

The slight distraction was all the opportunity the Uruk needed and it threw Legolas off itself, once more gaining the advantage over the Elf. Legolas fell hard on his side but his hand tightened around his sword even as he winced at the impact. Hands that had been previously wrapped around Aragorn's throat now firmly held Legolas down, rolling him onto his back and a clenched fist was raised only to then be slammed into Legolas' face. Legolas did not recoil but rather brought his knife up to hit the Uruk's thick neck with the white handle, a distraction and nothing more.

After a further struggle, Legolas once more gained the advantage for himself. He pinned the Uruk down on the ground, blade pressed to the exposed throat.

Every instinct in his body screamed at him to kill this abomination but Legolas held himself back, breathing heavily. He had to find out exactly what the creature knew about Aragorn. So, taking a deep breath to cool his pounding anger, Legolas asked, "Who is your master?"

The Uruk just laughed at the question, snarling deeply in the face of the Elf.

"Tell me and I will ease your passing, don't and I'll make you long for death to come."

"Ha!" the dark monster cackled, eyes staring into Legolas' face unflinchingly. "I do not fear any pain you could inflict, Elf."

"Who is your master?"

Laughing again in defiance, the Uruk replied, "He will never be anything."

Legolas shoved the Uruk back into the ground, pressing the blade closer to the throat of the foul creature as a threat. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"He will die, Prince, and you will be there to witness it."

Frowning in concern, Legolas demanded, "How do you know who I am?"

Now it was obvious that the Uruk was going to give the Elf nothing more and, upon realising that it was of no further use, Legolas slit the monster's throat cleanly, hoping that before it drew its final gurgling breath, coughing up thick black blood, the evil creation of Shadow felt at least some fear and pain. That thought sent a thrill of joy through Legolas' heart, although new worry now nagged at him constantly.

Then Legolas remembered Aragorn. The boy was all alone and it was almost pitch black by now. Quickly, Legolas searched the Uruk for anything useful but it was a pointless effort; the thing carried nothing but its rusted weapon and a flask of putrid-smelling, congealed brown liquid that made the Elf gag the vile smell was so intense.

Deciding that it was best to leave the body to simply rot away like the monster deserved, Legolas climbed to his feet and went to walk away. However, something on the body caught his eye, something he had not noticed before. A smudge of white war paint over the Uruk's face in a pattern Legolas did not recognise came into focus and Legolas crouched back down beside the corpse. With delicate fingers he traced the shape: a faded white hand.

It seemed an odd thing to paint onto one's face, something as innocuous as a hand. There was nothing threatening about a simple hand print although Legolas was certainly confused by it. He'd never seen the mark before, not on any of the allies of the Shadow nor anywhere else before the Free Lands had fallen. But the symbol clearly held some significance to the Uruk-hai if they took the time to paint it on their faces and armour before battle.

Legolas did not know why but he found himself troubled by this new discovery.

For now though, Aragorn was more important to him than getting to the root of this particular mystery, so he left the body and retraced his steps through the woods back to where he'd left his young charge. With the adrenaline of slaughtering the troublesome Uruk wearing off, Legolas found his aching legs starting to grow weaker, causing him to trip several times over, the forest floor still slippery from the recent rains and the darkness did nothing to ease his way.

It took longer than he would have liked to reach the clearing where he'd left Aragorn a little while ago. But thankfully, the young man had listened to his instructions and remained in the same position Legolas had left him in.

Skidding to a halt before the boy, breathing hard, Legolas looked down.

"Did you…?" Aragorn asked fearfully.

Legolas nodded, his worried eyes sweeping over Aragorn. "Yes. It's dead."

An odd look of emotional indecision flitted over Aragorn's face at this news. Mainly he felt relief. The thought that the forces of Shadow were already aligning against them scared him. "Good," he rasped shakily.

"Are you injured?" the Elf questioned gently, ignoring Aragorn's relief as he peered through the darkness to see the young Human.

"No, I don't think so."

Gentle fingers came up to Aragorn's neck, probing the tender flesh. Even though he winced at the feather-soft touch, Aragorn raised his own hand and removed Legolas' fingers from his still sore throat.

"I'll be fine."

Rocking back on his heels, Legolas nodded again even though his face continued to hold a look of concern for his young companion. "Alright. We should get out of here now." Legolas stood up, glancing around the clearing despite the fact that it was too dark now to see much of anything. He could hear no sound at all but the far away rumbling of the land of Shadow that remained ever-present in the background of the dying world.

After satisfying himself as best he could that no further danger lingered in the vicinity, Legolas turned back to find Aragorn still sat on the ground, also looking fearfully about the place.

"Come on." Legolas held out his hand for the young man to take then pulled Aragorn to his feet as well.

Clearly the young man was still anxious. He had never been so close to defeat in battle before, had never stared death in the face quite so closely. It was no surprise to Legolas that the man was rattled. But this was not the place to dwell on such things. Even though the clearing was at present devoid of anymore life, Legolas knew that a site of such carnage would soon attract scavengers and he did not want to still be there when they arrived. Living prey was always more appetising than carrion.

As Legolas walked away though, Aragorn did not immediately follow, making the Elf pause. He could see that the young man was still shaken but he decided it would be best not to allow him to wallow in his fear. They needed to keep moving forwards.

So Legolas laid his hands on Aragorn's shoulders and squeezed firmly. "Aragorn, we have to leave now."

Almost hesitantly, Aragorn's eyes met Legolas' in the dark and he actually found some small measure of comfort there. No trace of fear or worry showed on the Elf's face. Although his own stomach churned painfully at the thought of what now lay ahead in his future, Aragorn was convinced that everything would be well in the end. The one creature that could have spilled the secret was dead, killed by the Elf. If Legolas was not worried then surely Aragorn had no cause to be either.

Straightening up and squaring his shoulders in determination, Aragorn said, "Alright. Let's go then."

Legolas could not help but smile softly at the man's resoluteness. He patted Aragorn's shoulder in a small act of comfort then turned to lead him away.

**To Be Continued…**


	18. A Beacon In The Night

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 18 – A Beacon In The Night**

For a long time, at least two almost painfully lengthy nights, they walked, Legolas pushing Aragorn ever onwards in spite of the young man's obvious fatigue. The man did not know exactly where Legolas was leading him but he was so lost in thought for most of the time that he didn't really care all that much.

It was only when, on the second miserable day, Aragorn looked around himself and noticed the stripped trunks of the gnarled, deformed trees beginning to thin out.

"We're leaving the forest?" he exclaimed in surprise.

The man's voice breaking through the silence startled Legolas; he had heard it so little in the past days. He looked up in surprise at his young ward.

"I thought you would be pleased," Legolas said in reply once he'd composed himself, recalling how the man had complained when they had been trudging through the muddy ground in the pouring rain chasing after Goblins for days on end.

"Aren't we going to do any more hunting?"

"No," Legolas answered directly.

"Where are we going then?" Aragorn demanded of the once more cagey Elf.

The Elf walked in silence for a while, reluctant to answer the young man's justifiably important question. Knowing, however, that Aragorn was frustratingly persistent when it came to prying the truth from him, eventually Legolas spoke.

"We're going to Rivendell."

"Where?" Aragorn asked in confusion at the unfamiliar place name.

"Rivendell; it is an Elven settlement on the other side of the mountains."

"Elven?" the young man, predictably stunned, repeated dully, halting suddenly in his tracks. "You mean we're going to another place like Lothlorien?" he demanded accusingly.

Sighing at this entirely expected reaction, Legolas also stopped walking and looked back at the man. "No," he answered wearily, "not like Lothlorien. Rivendell is different."

"Hang on, you swore to me that we'd find answers in Lothlorien and we found nothing but death and devastation there. We went out of our way to track down Celeborn and Galadriel, who you'd pinned your hopes on, and it was all for nothing."

"It's not the same."

"How? What is different about this Rivendell place?"

"There is someone there who can help, who will know more about your…lineage."

Exasperated and by no means reassured, Aragorn reminded him loudly, "That's what you said last time!"

"Aragorn, I am not going to debate this with you. We're going to Rivendell. End of discussion," Legolas warned, starting to walk away again.

"No, it's not the end of the discussion," the youth protested, running to catch the Elf up. Again, Legolas sighed heavily but kept his pace up, unwilling to slow at Aragorn's demand. "Is Rivendell a long way to travel?" Aragorn asked from Legolas' side.

"Aragorn…"

"I'll take that as a yes," the boy said coldly. "We're going to travel all that way and for what?" When Legolas still didn't reply, the man's temper began to flare again, as it usually did when he didn't get the answers he wanted. "Legolas, it's a waste of time. We're better off on our own, just doing what we've been doing all along."

"Do you not understand?" Legolas suddenly whirled to face the boy in a burst of anger, effectively startling Aragorn into abrupt silence. "I can't do this alone anymore, Aragorn! That Uruk knew who you were and if_ it_ knew then maybe others do too and that thought absolutely _terrifies_ me because I don't know if I can protect you from whatever is coming. We're not simply walking the Old Forest Road anymore, child. Our main enemies are no longer a small bunch of disorganised Orcs scattered here and there. This is bigger than I can handle on my own and Rivendell is the only place left that I can think of to turn to for help!" Breathing heavily, Legolas quickly averted his eyes from Aragorn's now worried ones in the wake of his harsh words.

"Legolas," the young man said in a soft voice trembling in the face of the unfamiliar emotion pouring freely forth from his usually fiercely stoic Elven guardian. "I'm sorry."

Closing his eyes, Legolas shook his head sadly, already regretting his harsh words. He hadn't meant to burden Aragorn with his own insecurities. Swallowing thickly, the Elf looked down at Aragorn then laid his hand on the boy's slumped shoulder in apology.

"We're heading to Rivendell. Honestly, I don't know if we'll find answers there but we have to move toward something and right now I can think of no better place to regroup."

Nodding, Aragorn murmured a soft, "Alright."

"We'll try to reach the edge of the forest by nightfall then we'll pause to take some rest."

Before Aragorn had the chance to apologise again for arguing with his mentor's logic, Legolas had moved off again, effectively ending the awkward conversation for good. So, feeling utterly miserable with himself, Aragorn dragged himself along behind the Elf. He hadn't meant to cause Legolas any pain – he'd never wish for that – but he just got so terribly frustrated sometimes by his guardian's lack of communication with him. He wished that Legolas would confide in him occasionally, even if it did admittedly make them both rather uncomfortable on the rare occasion that it did happen.

He still felt that there was so much that Legolas concealed from him. When he'd been young, Aragorn hadn't thought much on it, he'd merely trusted that Legolas knew what was best for him, that the experienced Elf would always know what to do in any situation that arose and could be always relied upon. But now, he saw the occasional glint of uncertainty in those mysterious blue eyes and that scared him.

True to his word, Legolas allowed Aragorn to rest as night fell, although the Elf himself remained restless, still troubled over his decision to go to Rivendell. As Aragorn slept deeply, exhausted after days of walking, Legolas paced around the area, thinking through his choice to head towards the ancient Elven sanctuary of Imladris.

Despite the reservations and doubt gnawing at the back of his mind, Legolas found that he felt a certain excitement at the prospect of returning to what he had once considered to be his second home. And perhaps the haven would indeed be different to Lorien. He had always found refuge in Rivendell in the past, back when the war between the Mirkwood Elves and the Orcs had first started to darken his homeland and he needed a respite from the influence of the Shadow upon that which he loved.

Convincing Aragorn of the wisdom behind his decision was another matter though. Lately, the boy's confidence in his choices had started to wane once again, something that troubled Legolas greatly. The last time doubt had come between them Aragorn had very nearly wound up getting himself killed as a result of his anger.

Still, Legolas needed time to think, to gather his wits and figure out what course to travel next. Perhaps, looking at it in retrospect, he should have remained in Lothlorien for longer but his first instinct upon not finding what he wanted in the land of the Lady of Light had been to run from what was now the land of death and abandonment. Now he needed somewhere else, somewhere with some small semblance of familiarity to centre himself after the shock of finding out that the armies of Shadow knew somewhat of the young man he was guiding. His heart ached for rest more than it had done in decades. Homesickness, he would probably once have called the sensation.

Yes, his mind and his heart, broken and unpredictable as they may have been, were set on Rivendell.

**OIOIOI**

The journey to Rivendell, much to Aragorn's chagrin, was a long and miserable one. The way was littered with Orc patrols, which they quickly and efficiently disposed of. Legolas led them confidently over the Misty Mountains, through the snow-capped peaks via little-used tracks and rough terrain, and back down the other side of the great range until the snows lessened and the way become flatter and more bearable.

Aragorn never imagined in his life that he would be so very relieved to see bare, flat, boring plains, but he could have yelled in the sheer joy of escaping from the miserably cold and difficult terrain of the impressively colossal mountain range splitting the earth.

While Aragorn suffered on the journey though, Legolas seemed to gain a new spring to his step as they crossed over mountain and plain and river. Every step brought him closer to the possibility of familiarity, comfort and safety.

To Aragorn, the change in his guardian felt rather more disquieting than heartening because he had seen it once before – as they had approached the doomed lands of Lothlorien. The reckless excitement that had charged the Elf when they had first entered Lorien had been cruelly deflated the moment they had witnessed the ravaged, deserted silver kingdom of the Elves and it had crushed Legolas' spirit far more than he would ever freely admit to the boy in his charge. Aragorn did not want to see that kind of despair and defeat in his guardian's eyes ever again. Yet he feared, as they drew ever closer to Rivendell and Legolas' spirits rose further, that the Elf was setting himself up for disappointment once again.

Whilst Aragorn lagged behind, silently dreading nearing their destination, Legolas marched onwards with renewed confidence. He'd walked these plains so many times before and the paths were so very familiar to him, even if the landscape was rendered different in the aftermath of the War.

It was weeks into their journey when, one cold night as they huddled around the small fire that Aragorn had persuaded Legolas to light, the man gathered enough courage to broach the sore subject between them once more. The last time he'd braved it he had been deeply hurt by Legolas' words but he couldn't ignore it forever.

"Legolas?" Aragorn started, swallowing the tiny mouthful of berries they had gathered to serve as their meagre dinner for that day.

"Yes?" Legolas asked before taking a swig of water from their flask, wincing at how cold it was after being laid on the freezing ground for some time.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course you can."

"Do you promise to listen and not get angry at me for saying it?"

Legolas placed the flask down on the frozen ground and looked up, rubbing his gloved hands together to restore some feeling to his numb fingers. With a frown, he answered, "I suppose that depends very much on what you're going to say."

"Are you absolutely certain that going to the land of Rivendell is the best idea?"

"We have already discussed this."

"I know we have but…"

"Aragorn, please. We're going to Rivendell; end of story."

Although he nodded, Aragorn could not hold back the scathing words that came from him next, very much against his will though they were. "Why do you have so much faith in the lands of the Elves? Why couldn't we go to a Human land? Maybe they would have put up a better fight than your people and survived the War." Even through the dark, Aragorn felt the force of the Elf's gaze upon him and he startled that the words had spilled so thoughtlessly from his mouth. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

"Go to sleep," Legolas told him simply.

"I'm sorry, Legolas, but…Why do we never talk about this? Don't I have a right to voice my own opinions?"

"Aragorn…"

"I know you're my guardian and I do trust you. I trust you with my life," Aragorn told him softly, genuinely and without hesitation. "I just wish you would trust me once in a while."

When on earth, Legolas wondered, had this clueless young child who'd been dumped into his care with really no idea of anything at all, become so terribly wise? Certainly, Legolas thought that he had not taught him to be so.

Instead of the answer of confidence that Aragorn had hoped for, Legolas merely told him again, "We are going to Rivendell."

Feeling a sense of familiar deflation coming over him, Aragorn sighed deeply, watching his frustrated breath plume in front of him in the freezing air. "Fine," he sulked, wrapping his arms tightly around himself, shoving his hands under his armpits for warmth.

**OIOI**

As they neared Rivendell, the excitement that had kept Legolas confidently following the familiar paths towards the deep valley of the Elven people became increasingly clouded by doubt. It tugged and nagged at him until his excitement had dwindled and turned instead to dread.

He could much more easily grasp now the concern his young human companion had spoken of several times previously, could understand the man's constant worry. But, truth be known, he'd been so caught up in the idea of seeing the valley home of the lost and exiled again - the light amidst the darkness for the abandoned and hopeless - that he had not considered what he would feel if Rivendell, a relatively non-militarised realm, had fallen along with its people.

Although a ring-bearer himself, Lord Elrond had never possessed the power that Lady Galadriel of Lorien had demonstrated. And perhaps that lack of true, ancient power had saved the Noldor Lord and his people from the fatal cruelty of the Shadow. Rivendell had indeed always been protected by that same ancient magic as its Lothlorien counterpart, but it had never been wholly concealed as the Lady's lands had been, for Rivendell was open to all the dispossessed to enter freely and without fear, providing sanctuary. 'The Haven of the Free' Elrond had always called his homeland. What if the Elven ruler's kind heart had been his kingdom's downfall?

"This is Rivendell?" Aragorn's question broke into Legolas' increasingly gloomy reverie.

"That it is," the Elf confirmed as light-heartedly as he could manage, looking about himself.

Legolas wasn't sure why, but when he had passed over what he remembered to be the borders of Rivendell, he'd expected to feel or see the difference between the cold world they lived in and the ancient Elven refuge. And yet, he felt nothing remotely familiar here. No thrill of subtle magic pricked at his skin, no reassuring rush of warmth and safety washed over him as he'd expected. Everything inside him felt just as cold, just as lost as it ever had.

"Are you alright?" Aragorn asked and Legolas looked to the man to discover that without even realising it they'd come to a halt.

"Yes," Legolas said quietly, flinching even as his voice fractured. Swallowing thickly the lump of disappointment that was forming in the back of his throat, Legolas tried to assure, "Yes, I'm fine."

The boy's eyes roved down the Elf then he suggested, "We could stop here to rest if you wish."

"No, it's yet early. We should make the most of the daylight."

Before Aragorn had the chance to pose the suggestion again, Legolas had moved off, seemingly still deep in thought and once more unheeding of his charge. "Alright then," the man muttered to himself, walking briskly after his distracted guardian.

This land that once sang with untold beauty was, as with the rest of Middle Earth, now reduced to a dead and barren landscape. No sound of softly rushing waterfalls echoed around the valley, no variety of brightly coloured flowers blossomed, no ancient trees hummed with joy at the presence of one of the Blessed Firstborn wandering amongst them. The once green and bountiful sanctuary to all Free Peoples was now brown and dry and ultimately dead. No life blossomed brilliantly here any longer and the truth of this hit Legolas like a most tangible, physical force.

For some reason, Legolas found the abandonment of Rivendell harder to bear in his heart than all the horrors he had witnessed in Lothlorien, perhaps because he had so loved this land growing up. It had always been the perfect antidote for the soul to the thick essence of Darkness that permeated the very air of his homeland of the aptly named Mirkwood. Rivendell was the light in contrast. Always so filled with joy and life and music, it was no wonder that the lonely and hurting had flocked to Imladris to regroup and rest, to ease their troubles of mind and spirit. Of all the places, Legolas felt that this land of joy did not deserve to be touched and sullied by the Shadow.

Despite the fact that both were weary from the long journey over the mountains, Legolas continued onwards without pause and, seeing the determination set on the Elf's features, Aragorn followed, matching his rapid pace without further protest.

Little over a day after passing over the borders to this land, they reached the first town. They did not linger. Exploration would only uncover the dead and they had already seen enough of that.

This new, squeamish Legolas felt odd to Aragorn but he did not argue with his guardian as he himself did not wish to see any further horrors that may have been hidden in the town if at all avoidable. Legolas skirted around the town, so they saw only the few buildings on the very borders of the small settlement. It was not an encouraging sight to start out with. The Elven homes appeared all long abandoned, their once beautiful structures cracked and charred as if fire had at some point blown its way through the town leaving devastation in its wake. Too much like Lothlorien to be a good omen, Legolas considered, although he dared not give voice to his thoughts.

"Look at that," Aragorn breathed in wonderment as an enormous, high waterfall came into sight.

It was not a surprise to Legolas. He had been to this very place so many times before. But Aragorn had never seen anything quite like it in his life. Towering up the face of a sheer cliff, the water, brown and muddy, cascaded down the jagged rock-face, smashing into the vast volume of filthy water pooled below. The roar was nearly deafening to even the human.

"That is beautiful," the awed man said as they got closer.

"Hmm. Beautiful." To the Elf, this served as yet another reminder of the pollution of Shadow that had tainted his people's lands. "Once this waterfall glistened blue and silver, bathed in glorious sunlight. _Then_ it was beautiful," the Elf sighed sadly. "No longer."

Going to the edge of the brown-coloured body of water, Aragorn tried to peer into the depths. The water was too murky to see through though; he could not even catch a glimpse of the bottom.

"Do you think it's safe to drink?" the man asked as he crouched down on the muddy bank beside the pool.

"I wouldn't risk it," Legolas answered, squinting sceptically up at the rushing water.

Aragorn had always been accustomed to drinking filthy water from wherever they could find an unpolluted source – the trick was in finding one that wouldn't end up poisoning them. To him, this was as good a source as any but even so Legolas did not like the look of this particular lake for drinking and the boy would not second guess him.

"Alright. We should move on then." The boy sounded almost disappointed to be leaving. Compared to other places they'd recently travelled, so far Rivendell had proven surprisingly peaceful.

Legolas, however, was definitely not sorry to leave. Now that the initial excitement of returning to a place beloved had worn off, these dead lands and deserted settlements were making him increasingly uneasy over what else waited for him.

Another day's walking without further pause brought them in sight of something entirely unfamiliar to Legolas. A vast, sturdy metal fence, so disgustingly out of place given that Rivendell had been purposefully built around the natural form of the landscape using only natural raw materials, rose out of the ground, reaching at least twenty feet up into the air.

After many years the cold metal was entwined with thick, solid vines that, despite the lack of other vegetation, seemed to thrive in the barren soil.

"What's behind it?" Aragorn asked, looking up to the top of the structure.

Their location was obvious to Legolas and it did not inspire confidence. "Just down the slope lies the House of Elrond," he answered quietly, fearfully.

"Maybe there are people still in there and this is protecting them." Trying to remain hopeful was even more difficult than Aragorn imagined it would be, for by now they both knew the truth of the matter.

Legolas looked to either side of him. "It is not guarded."

"We're going to climb over the top, aren't we?" Aragorn sighed, not looking forward to the prospect.

The Elf merely smiled at him and reached up to grab at one of the strong vines, tugging hard to check its sturdiness before daring to put even his slight weight upon it. When it didn't give under the pressure he applied, Legolas pulled himself up the scratchy vine, using both the overgrown plants and the cold, dirty metal of the fence to aid in his ascent.

Behind him, Aragorn moved upwards at a much slower pace, far more nervous of the height than his Elven guardian. Still, they made it all the way to the other side without incident.

"Perhaps it is abandoned after all," Aragorn mused idly, looking up and down the length of the bleak structure to find that they had openly crossed into the protected land unchallenged. When he looked back to Legolas and saw the increased disappointment on the Elf's face, his voice softened and he said, "I'm sorry, Legolas."

"Let's just keep moving."

Legolas led the winding way down through the valley, once more continuing on through the night without rest when darkness fell. The road down was actually relatively clear, not often used, but not completely overgrown either. Hope was no longer a reasonable thing to indulge in though, so Legolas kept his mind focused instead on the way ahead and leading Aragorn safely along the path.

By the time the world lightened with the dawn, the rain had started again, drizzling from the grey sky in hard, cold drops, but even through the haze of water they could see, as the day grew lighter, in the distance a large and magnificent house appear.

As Legolas kept his eyes firmly fixed on the ground, avoiding looking at the familiar place before him, Aragorn stared ahead in undisguised astonishment. The place was massive, certainly bigger than anything they'd seen while staying in Lothlorien.

Climbing up high in between impossibly tall and ancient trees, the great house remained dark, unlit even though the day at its height was almost dull enough to be mistaken for evening.

"What is it?" Aragorn asked their guardian of the place when they paused in their walk to take in the view around them.

"The House of Elrond."

Aragorn scoffed in disbelief and said, "That is not a house, it's a palace."

"It is," Legolas smiled, still not looking directly at the house. He was afraid, as they drew closer, of what he might see should he focus too hard. Watching Mirkwood become defiled by Shadow had very nearly broken his heart; he was afraid to see what had become of his second home. And yet still he felt compelled to continue onwards in spite of his reservations.

"Did you know this place very well?" Aragorn asked to break the silence that had fallen between them.

A small smile touched Legolas' lips at the memory. "Yes, very well indeed." At first, Aragorn thought that that was all the information he would get from his notoriously taciturn guardian but after a moment, Legolas continued, "I used to spend my summers here as a youth and when I grew older, whenever I could be spared from my home that is. This was once a place of great happiness and peace for me."

"You liked it here?" Aragorn smiled broadly.

"Yes, I did. But when the war started," Legolas' voice became grimmer, "I never came back. We all became so involved in protecting our own lands and people that there was no longer any time to worry about the fates of the other realms, even our allies became insignificant."

"I'm sure they would have held out for as long as possible." It was an empty reassurance, Aragorn knew it, but he tried nevertheless.

"I would like to think so," Legolas smiled thinly, for surely the warriors of Imladris had indeed put up a fight in the face of war and they were, after all, led by some of the best, most respected commanders in the Elven race. The twin sons of Rivendell's Lord would have defended their father's beloved sanctuary and perhaps they would have succeeded, survived the onslaught of evil that would have undoubtedly washed over their lands as it had every other of significance. And to the forces of Shadow, the mighty Glorfindel, leader of the Lord's army, would surely have made for a formidable opponent. Maybe they had won through in the end. Perhaps they had even escaped Rivendell with the other survivors of the war. Maybe they had fled to the Undying Lands before the final ships sailed, beyond the reach of Sauron, the place where Shadow would never be able to dampen the Light.

That latter possibility was especially comforting to Legolas. There was no escaping this world now – the last of the Ships to the Blessed Realm had sailed long ago before the Grey Havens had been completely destroyed by the Orc armies. Legolas, along with however many Elves yet survived on Arda, was trapped here on Middle Earth until their deaths. But maybe there was still hope out there across the Sea; his kin could have found paradise. That had to be worth something.

"Legolas?" Aragorn asked and the Elf realised that he had once more become lost inside his own head.

"Let's just keep moving," the guardian said, quickening his pace. "We should reach the house before nightfall."

The rest of the walk passed in silence. Legolas was too lost in his own thoughts to bother with conversation and Aragorn couldn't think of a way to break through the quiet.

As the light began to fade into another night, the path before them levelled out. The road became wider, the lodgings around them fewer. Only one more corner then they stood before the Last Homely House.

Up close, Aragorn became even more awed by its size and grandeur. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before.

"It's beautiful," the boy breathed to the Elf stood frozen at his side.

Legolas though did not see the beauty. He saw nothing but ruination. Death clung to the ancient structure like a mist and it chilled him to the bone, making his already fragile heart ache once again, for the House of Elrond was not left untouched by the ravages of war as he had hoped.

The once ethereal and splendid tall facia of Elrond's home, secluded and hidden amongst towering, centuries-old trees, was now barely recognisable. It appeared that it had been left untended for years and had been left to crumble in its neglect.

The balconies with their beautifully carved railings had long ago fallen into total disrepair and been gradually broken down by the elements over the decades so they had completely rotted through, for the most part leaving great gaps in the once exquisitely carved walls. White wood, lovingly carved by the Elves who had first settled in the valley millennia before, had become warped and covered in thick moss making it look dark and strange to Legolas.

This once magnificent edifice was now little more than a sorrowful ruin. And now Legolas was absolutely certain of one thing: Lord Elrond no longer resided here, for the fastidious Lord would never have allowed his beloved realm to fall into ruin whilst he remained standing.

Stood before the tragic, defiled ghost of the sanctuary he had grown up loving so very dearly, Legolas quietly mourned the downfall of this once magical realm and her kindly guardian.

"Legolas?" Aragorn's voice echoed through Legolas' thoughts and, swallowing the bitter taste of disappointment in his throat, he glanced over at the boy. "Should we go back inside?" Slightly concerned by the sudden paling of his Elf at his side when he suggested this, Aragorn pointed out softly, looking up at the tall house, "I mean, we came all this way. We should at least take a look inside, don't you think?"

For a long moment, Legolas stood in silence, his jaw clamped shut tightly, letting the fear and pain wash over him before he attempted to speak.

Eventually, he looked back to Aragorn and nodded. "Let's find another entrance." The big front doors, in the past open to all Men and Elves with good intentions, were bolted and chained shut and clearly had been for so long that they could probably no longer even be opened.

Slowly, they made their way along the front of the house towards the side, where Legolas recalled there being another, smaller entrance.

Whilst Aragorn's continued amazement kept his gaze focused firmly on the vast house as they walked around it, Legolas kept his eyes firmly averted. He didn't want to see any more than he absolutely had to. Too much pain permeated the air around the house; there was no point in adding to his own discomfort unnecessarily.

"Look at that," Aragorn sharply said, nudging Legolas' elbow to gain his attention.

When Legolas looked up, following Aragorn's line of sight, he saw a dim orange light shining from behind a grimy window. Feeling his breath catch in his throat, the Elf squinted up at the soft glow. Firelight, perhaps, or a lamp or candle; he wasn't sure which. But the only thing that really mattered was what this meant: life. There was life in Rivendell after all.

**To Be Continued…**


	19. Home Of The Free And The Just

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thank you so much for all your wonderful reviews! So many! Love it.**

**Manwatheil, to answer your question: this story is (massively) AU but it takes place when Aragorn is a younger man so technically before Tolkien's Lord of the Rings takes place (because Aragorn is eighty-something in the books). Things have been moved about though – so people who shouldn't be alive when Aragorn was a boy are (you'll see what I mean in later chapters). I thought a little flexibility with timelines was necessary to complete this story! Hope that clears things up for you. **

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 19 – Home of the Free and the Just**

PREVIOUSLY…

_Slowly, they made their way along the front of the house towards the side, where Legolas recalled there being another, smaller entrance._

_Whilst Aragorn's continued amazement kept his gaze focused firmly on the vast house as they walked around it, Legolas kept his eyes firmly averted. He didn't want to see any more than he absolutely had to. Too much pain permeated the air around the house; there was no point in adding to his own discomfort unnecessarily._

"_Look at that," Aragorn sharply said, nudging Legolas' elbow to gain his attention._

_When Legolas looked up, following Aragorn's line of sight, he saw a dim orange light shining from behind a grimy window. Feeling his breath catch in his throat, the Elf squinted up at the soft glow. Firelight, perhaps, or a lamp or candle; he wasn't sure which. But the only thing that really mattered was what this meant: life. There was life in Rivendell after all._

**OIOI**

With his aching heart striking his chest with, perhaps dangerous, renewed excitement, Legolas told Aragorn, "There is another door a little way down. Let's go."

Aragorn followed close behind his Elven guardian as Legolas moved with renewed confidence towards their destination. Whilst Legolas seemed cheered, if not a little cautiously, by the prospect of there being other living people within the Last Homely House, it troubled Aragorn deeply. And it was not merely the thought that those people might well be unfriendly, which was more than likely if past experience was to be taken into consideration, but the very possibility that he would get to meet other people – perhaps even others like Legolas, Elves, was worrying. The only other good people he'd ever met were the Rangers he and his father had travelled with and that had been many years ago. Everyone else since his meeting Legolas had been intent on causing them pain or destroying them entirely. He'd had no experience in interacting with 'non-demented', normal people and the possibility that they were like his awkward, uncommunicative mentor made Aragorn even less comfortable. He loved Legolas like a brother and respected him greatly but the Elf had never been the easiest person to talk to, to be around and Aragorn had no idea whether his surviving kin would be any more forthcoming.

As they walked slowly and with some care around the dark House of Elrond, Aragorn looked around himself, taking a moment to digest his second experience of an Elven kingdom. It seemed far smaller than Lothlorien, a lot less grand than the other realm they had visited. It lacked the immediate sense of grandeur he had felt when Legolas had shown him Caras Galadhon.

Mist rose around the foundations and gardens surrounding the House, whipping around the wooden structure, giving the whole place a rather oddly mystical feel. Even so, Aragorn could make out unusual stone statues surrounding the House itself, ghostly images of weeping women, eerie stone Men looking upward to the heavens. Although shrouded in mist and marginally eroded over time exposed to the elements, Aragorn found them enchantingly beautiful to look at. He wondered if maybe they held special significance beyond simply being splendid to look at.

Despite the beauty though, the statues also looked so terribly sad. Monuments to what once was in this wondrous land.

Legolas paid no attention to his surroundings. In fact, he purposefully ignored looking at anything but the bare path ahead him.

"Right here," Legolas said in a whisper, stopping to point towards a rotten wooden door.

Keeping his voice quiet to match his mentor's, Aragorn complained, "It looks just as bad as the other one."

In the dark, Legolas smiled at him and stepped to the door, laying his hand on the rusted handle. It took only one hard yank to pull the door open, although the warped wood protested at being moved after so many years closed tight against the world.

"Oh," Aragorn muttered to himself as he stepped closer to Legolas. "Why couldn't we have done that around the front?"

"It is less conspicuous here."

"There is no one around to see us," Aragorn pointed out, glancing left then right in confirmation that they were indeed alone.

Ignoring him, Legolas continued on with his explanation. "Besides, the front doors of the House would have been shut tight during the attacks on Rivendell. Side doors would be used to allow people to escape the House during the siege; they're less noticeable and thus less firmly barricaded."

"Alright," Aragorn sighed, wishing now that he hadn't said anything in the first place to irk his guardian.

Legolas peered through the doorway but the thick darkness within prevented him from seeing much at all inside. Leaning back out, he swung his bag off one shoulder, opened it and slowly pulled out his knives.

"We're going in armed?" Aragorn asked in confusion, lowering his voice further now that he knew that Legolas was worried. Considering the Elf had declared this to be a place of safety and seemed to trust those who dwelt within, Aragorn found it odd that he would think it necessary to be armed when they entered the so called haven.

"Better safe than sorry," Legolas reasoned with a shrug.

Aragorn decided that, although his guardian's reasoning was still strange, this seemed like a wise adage and so drew out his own weapons.

"Are you ready?"

"Of course," the man smiled at Legolas, cheered by Legolas' newly confident air.

Nevertheless, caution was still appropriate so he followed the Elf over the threshold into the mysterious House of Elrond. The hall they entered was too dark to make out much of anything but Aragorn _felt _the difference right away.

Beneath his feet was perfectly polished stone, the finest quality, he imagined, his footsteps echoed loudly around, suggesting the room they had entered was absolutely huge. The air remained cold but it seemed perfectly dry inside, not plagued by leaks or damp in spite of the cracked facia apparent from the outside. Perhaps the building was not quite as dilapidated as appearances initially suggested. Perhaps it was being maintained by whoever lived here now. But that still didn't mean that the two visitors would necessarily be made welcome. People in possession of an intact grand home like this would surely not wish to share it with outsiders.

"Door," Legolas hissed at the distracted young man.

Snapping from his musings, Aragorn turned back and quietly shut the door behind him.

Together, they moved slowly across the room, Aragorn sticking close to Legolas, who thankfully seemed to be able to navigate himself perfectly well in the thick darkness. And, whilst the man's footfalls sounded loud in the silence of the big room, Legolas' were near silent. However, Aragorn could tell that the Elf was highly alert to every other sound around him.

"Through here," Legolas whispered, leading Aragorn through an open door into a long hallway. "I think we should go this way."

"Toward the light? Is that wise?"

"One way or another, we have to find the people who are residing here. Heading towards the light is the most sensible place to go."

"I suppose," the man said with a sigh, moving after his mentor. "But don't you think a more roundabout route would be a better idea?"

"No."

Conversation ended, Legolas started walking again in their – or his – chosen direction and Aragorn had no choice but to shrug and follow behind him.

They passed multiple rooms with open doors as they walked warily along the lengthy hall but no other light source came from any of them. It seemed that this one flickering light towards which they were headed was the only one in all of Imladris - a sad statement to be made considering that once thousands of Elves would have been bustling around these hallways and around the town below. It did at least make it easy to find the source of the light in the darkness though.

The orange candlelight shone through one particular door, left open only a crack. Gripping their weapons tightly and tensing in preparation for a fight, Legolas used his foot to push the door open cautiously, and then stepped inside, immediately looking around the room. It appeared to be vacant, although it remained neatly furnished and cleaned; someone had been here recently. They searched it just to be certain that no surprises lurked inside. Whilst Aragorn searched – unnecessarily – inside cupboards, Legolas went to the window, towards the light: a single candle burning against a black back-drop.

As he reached out a long finger to touch the pale, flickering flame of the candle, an odd sensation pricked at him and even though nothing disturbed his other senses, he adjusted his knife, ready to strike.

"Please don't touch that."

Legolas whirled sharply towards the sound of the voice, that achingly familiar voice seemingly so loud against the general backdrop of silence. The tall, lithe figure was shrouded in shadow but Legolas did not need visual confirmation to identify the person who now stood in the doorway.

From the corner of his eye, Legolas saw his young human charge go to rush at the shadowy figure defensively, his sword raised ready for the attack.

"Aragorn, no!" Legolas commanded firmly, stopping the understandably stunned man abruptly in his tracks.

Looking from his guardian then towards the dark figure and back, Aragorn, confused as to why Legolas would not want to defend himself against the unknown, asked, "Why not?" keeping a wary eye on the dark figure, who'd not moved so much as an inch in the face of potential attack.

For a long moment, Legolas stared with dark intensity at the doorway and the person stood in it. When he did answer, it was quietly, softly. "Because he's a friend. He means us no harm."

Shuffling warily closer to Legolas, sword still held high ready for an attack even if his guardian refused to be, the young man ground out, "How do you know?"

This time, Legolas did not offer an answer to his nervous ward, just continued to watch the strange person stood in the doorway with a steady gaze. And the enigmatic figure stared steadily back through the soft light of the candle, dark eyes unblinking as he looked upon the intruders.

Aragorn stood bewildered as the two beings stared for a long time at each other, neither speaking or even moving. He did not understand. Much to his surprise though, it was the stranger and not Legolas who at last took control and broke the tense silence.

Not at all threatened in the face of Aragorn's still raised weapon, the tall being stepped towards them, closer to the light emitting from the small candle on the window sill.

"Welcome."

In response, Legolas just nodded shortly once. Aragorn was quite surprised to see that under the close scrutiny of the strange, grey eyes of the heavily accented stranger, Legolas shrank into himself, became passive, almost nervous. Aragorn wasn't used to seeing his mentor thus and felt disconcerted by it. But all the same he took Legolas' example and remained silent and unmoving in the face of the stranger.

Instead, the man took the opportunity to openly examine the seemingly sole occupant of the great house. He stood taller than Legolas and certainly felt far more imposing, which in Aragorn's eyes was quite a feat. Dark, raven hair hanging down over his shoulders shimmered in the soft orange glow of the candlelight. Grey eyes glittered with no hint of anger or menace as they gazed unflinchingly at the man and Elf intruding upon his home.

Despite getting no response, the stranger continued on.

"I am the warden of this house. Do you need shelter?"

The question was asked genuinely but Legolas merely swallowed thickly, unable to form a response through the thick lump in his throat. Aragorn looked up at his mentor but Legolas ignored his questioning gaze. He seemed frozen to the spot, paralysed by the encounter.

Deciding that this stranger's patience could soon begin to run thin at their continued lack of answers, Aragorn said, "Uh, yes, please."

The tall, lithe creature nodded sincerely, gracefully moving his hands to clasp them in front of him as he asked, "Do you two have names?" When Aragorn hesitated, uncertain as to whether he should disclose their true names to this stranger without really knowing yet whether he was friend or foe, the elegant being spread his hands before him in surrender and reassured, "I would understand if you do not wish to confide them."

Aragorn felt oddly comforted by the words as the being spoke. The voice was kindly, heavily accented but by no means unpleasant to listen to, indeed it was far more mellow than even Legolas'. So, he answered the question truthfully, "I am Aragorn and this is…"

"Hello, Erestor."

Aragorn startled as Legolas addressed the being personally. And the stranger – although apparently not a stranger to Legolas, who had obviously addressed him by name – also cocked his head in surprise at hearing his name being spoken.

"Do I know you, friend?" the being, Erestor according to Legolas, asked after taking a moment to recover himself.

Suddenly, Legolas switched to a tongue that Aragorn had never heard before, although the sound of it was magnificently beautiful to his ears despite his lack of understanding. "You don't remember me, after all my years of visiting here?"

It didn't seem possible in Aragorn's eyes for the dark being to look any more stunned and yet somehow he managed it when he heard the language, which he obviously also spoke, spill from Legolas' lips.

And yet he responded in an identical tongue. "Forgive me. I'm afraid you will need to remind me."

Legolas smiled softly and took a step towards the being. Still baffled and clueless as to the meaning of the unusual words being spoken around him, Aragorn remained where he was, simply letting this strange scene play out.

However, this time, Aragorn's mentor responded in the Common Tongue. "It is I, Erestor. Legolas."

For a long moment, Erestor stared at them in astonishment, his eyes roving over Legolas curiously, weighing up whether or not to believe the claim of his identity.

"Legolas?" Now, the kindly voice was sharper, distrustful.

"Yes."

The tension in the room grew almost unbearable as the two Elves stared each other down and Aragorn uselessly shifted on his feet simply for something to do. All of this was horribly confusing. Obviously, Legolas knew this person, although as of yet he could not tell whether they were friends or old enemies.

After a long moment, the taller of the two took another step forward, coming fully into the soft sphere of candlelight with a soft smile now on his lips. He laid a delicate hand on his chest then extended the gesture towards Legolas and his human companion.

"Welcome, Legolas," Erestor offered. "And welcome also Aragorn."

Now, Legolas relaxed completely and a smile appeared on his own face and he echoed Erestor's movement – perhaps a greeting of some kind, Aragorn thought.

"Please, come," Erestor said, stepping back towards the door and indicating that they should follow.

Aragorn was not going to simply follow the Elf without Legolas' say so and he looked up to his mentor for guidance. Unfazed by the nervousness in the air, Legolas just nodded to his charge. So Aragorn walked after the tall, dark Elf, comforted by Legolas' hand on his shoulder. His mentor could easily sense Aragorn's unease and sought to alleviate his worries.

They walked steadily along the dark corridors, Legolas and Aragorn following as Erestor led them in comfortable silence. There would be time for questions later. And Legolas had plenty in mind.

Eventually, they came to a small hall - wood-panelled, windows all boarded-up, but lit by copious candlelight. It appeared that this was the room where Erestor resided, as there was a mattress, made up neatly with clean bedding, and various other home comforts in the room. With a fire burning in the hearth, the place looked positively homely.

As Legolas and Aragorn stood uncertainly in the doorway, taking in the sight of the unusual room, Erestor went to a table near where his bedding had been placed.

Reaching for a silver pitcher placed on the table, Erestor said, "You must be hungry and thirsty." He poured fresh, clear water into two goblets then carried them to his guests, who took them without protest. "Please come inside," Erestor invited, moving into the cosy room again.

This time, Legolas moved with him and, of course, Aragorn did the same, trusting Legolas' decision even if he didn't entirely trust Erestor just yet.

As he slowly moved around the room, Legolas asked, "You live here?"

"Yes," Erestor smiled benignly, his hands once more neatly clasped in front of him.

"Alone?" Legolas' eyes flickered over to the other Elf.

"I am alone now, yes."

Despite his heart sinking at this news, Legolas nodded sincerely. "People pass through Imladris often?"

"Very occasionally now, I fear."

"And the candle?"

Erestor gave a short laugh and lowered his eyes in near embarrassment. "A foolish hope that it may serve as a beacon to the lost and hopeless," he explained softly. "I had thought that perhaps it no longer served a purpose." A soft smile made his eyes sparkle as he looked back up to Legolas. "Although if it guided you home, friend, then I consider it a resounding success after all."

Legolas returned the smile, meeting soft grey eyes for the first time. The relative peace that had now settled between them was interrupted when, at Legolas' side, Aragorn conspicuously cleared his throat, having not yet been introduced properly to the dark Elf and feeling rather left out.

Realising that the two Elves had unknowingly slipped back into their native tongue once more and the man had absolutely no chance of understanding it, Legolas turned to him and smiled apologetically. "Forgive me."

This alerted Erestor's attention to Legolas' companion and his grey gaze shifted down to the boy.

In the Common Tongue, he asked, "He is a Human child?"

"Not a child," Aragorn protested defensively, trying to make himself appear taller before the two Elves. It was all for nothing though as Legolas smiled at him and affectionately ruffled his hair, very much in the manner of an adult to a wayward child. "Get off."

"Aragorn is my ward," Legolas explained to the other Elf, laying his hand against Aragorn's back.

"Your ward?" Erestor repeated the words in surprise.

"Yes."

"You surprise me." The Legolas that Erestor had known previously, the Legolas who had grown up under the smothering cloak of his father's dislike of any other culture besides that of his own, would never have deigned to travel with a human companion at his side. Frowning, Erestor let his eyes roam over Legolas once again. "You have changed a great deal."

"Many things have changed of late," Legolas told him softly. Then, glancing almost forlornly to Aragorn, he added, "However could they not?"

"Indeed." Once more, a thoughtful silence descended between the pair and Aragorn felt like rolling his eyes in frustration. How on earth, he wondered, did the Elves ever get anything done if they spent so many silent minutes weighing each other up? "Well, I'm sure you are both in great need of rest. I shall get you something to eat whilst you get cleaned up – if you wish that is. There is a bathroom just through there," he pointed towards a door on the far side of the room. "I'll be back in a moment."

With that, Erestor left them alone.

Finally alone with his guardian, Aragorn laid his still full goblet down on the table and asked Legolas, "You know him?"

"Yes, he was the Major Domo in this house."

"What is a Major Domo?"

"Like a head housekeeper and advisor."

"Oh. He's a little strange."

Legolas chuckled gently to himself and agreed, "Yes, to you, perhaps."

"Are all Elves like that?"

"Like what?"

"Aloof," Aragorn said the word pointedly, which made his guardian laugh again.

"Well, you've met two now; what do you think?" Now Aragorn just smiled at him, deciding that it was best not to irritate Legolas right then, especially seeing as his mood had improved considerably since meeting the other Elf. "Alright then. Go and wash up."

More seriously now, Aragorn whispered, "Are you sure he can be trusted?"

"I am sure."

"As long as you trust him, it's good enough for me," Aragorn decided with a shrug, going towards the bathroom.

Leaving the door open a crack so he could get easy access to his guardian should he need to, Aragorn removed his jacket then stripped off his filthy clothing, looking around for the bowl of water that he had expected as had been available to him in Lothlorien.

Finding no water with which to wash, Aragorn poked his head around the door and called, "Legolas? There is no water."

The Elf joined him in the bathroom, stepping over his discarded clothes and looked around in the same manner as the man had. Then he looked to the bathtub, finding it actually clean compared to the layers of dust in the washbasin. He went to the tub and turned the tap. Water at first dribbled and then gushed freely from the faucet, making Aragorn startle. Never in his life had he seen water pour forth from metal on command. He jumped once again when a rumbling sound resounded all around them.

"What is that?" the young man demanded of his mentor and tutor.

"Relax. It's just the hot water moving through the pipes."

Tentatively, Aragorn placed his fingers under the flow of warm water coming from the tap then asked in wonder as he pulled back, "How is that possible?"

Legolas turned the water off then patted Aragorn on the back. "I'll explain later. Climb in and wash yourself up."

Warm water was by no means a novelty to Aragorn. Whenever possible, they would build a fire and boil water over it in which to wash, but that was a long process that it seemed Legolas preferred to avoid if he at all could. But water that flowed clear and freely, heated almost instantly, to Aragorn was little short of a miracle. He could not understand how it was possible. Perhaps, he mused as he climbed into the tub of warm water, Elven realms really were magical and Legolas had been holding out on him all this time.

Being entirely submerged in the blissfully warm, clean water was not an experience he had ever had before and he found it to be wonderfully pleasant. The warmth made his fingers and toes tingle as it melted away the chill. Sinking further down into the tub, Aragorn released a sigh and closed his eyes.

Perhaps, he conceded, coming to Rivendell was not such a bad idea after all.

**To Be Continued…**


	20. In Your Absence

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks to all my lovely reviewers. Your comments are always welcomed.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 20 – In Your Absence**

"Where is your young companion?" Erestor's cool voice came from the doorway where he was stood holding a tray with two small plates of food.

Slightly startled by the sudden appearance of the Elf – and disconcerted by the fact that he'd been so deep in thought that he hadn't been paying sufficient attention or heard the older Elf's approach – Legolas looked around sharply. When he found his voice again after a moment, he smiled slightly and explained, "Oh, he's enjoying his first ever hot bath." A soft sigh came from inside the bathroom and Legolas couldn't help but smile at the sound of contentment.

Encouraged by the more relaxed demeanour of the blonde Elf, Erestor too smiled and came fully into the room to lay the tray down on the table.

"Please help yourself to food," the Major Domo offered politely.

Legolas glanced briefly towards the bathroom door. "I shall wait for Aragorn." The boy deserved to eat too, after all.

"Of course," Erestor nodded politely in agreement. He didn't personally understand the need to wait but then he did not want to bring back the distrust he'd seen in Legolas' eyes earlier.

"Although," the young Elf smiled broadly, "he might be a while yet."

Once again Erestor smiled then suggested, "Perhaps you would like me to take your cloak?" He raked his shrewd grey eyes over Legolas' dirty, poorly attired form and corrected, "Or rather, your jacket."

Surprisingly, Legolas hesitated at this. Although his coat was ill-fitting, filthy dirty and still quite damp from the recent rains, and was so holey by now that it hardly kept him warm at all anymore, he found himself reluctant to part from it, or any of his belongings – his pack was still on his shoulder even though Aragorn had already discarded his own bag in favour of taking his bath. Being his only possessions in the world, he found himself rather protective over even the simple things, knowing how costly it would be to lose them.

"Forgive me," Erestor's voice broke through the tension during Legolas' continued uncertain hesitation. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

Legolas shook his head. This was absurdity. He knew Erestor to be honest and kind-hearted and now it was he and not their host who was being rude. So far, Erestor had shown nothing but kindness to both him and his ward; he did not deserve now to be doubted.

"You did not," Legolas assured the dark-haired Elf and slid his pack off his shoulder. He pulled his jacket off then handed it to Erestor who stood with his arm out ready to dutifully accept his coat. "Thank you."

Even though it was obviously soon destined to be kindling for the fire, Erestor still carefully placed the jacket on the coat rack by the door. He also hung up Legolas' battered backpack by the handle, tied only in a knot now that the clasps had broken. Both things meant something to the blonde Elf therefore the Major Domo would treat them with the kind of respect he would always have treated belongings of the Prince of Mirkwood in his previous visits to the haven.

"Please, sit," Erestor then offered his guest gesturing to one of the chairs by the roaring fire. He thought the blonde might protest again but Legolas merely picked up his goblet of water from where it had been placed on the window sill and moved slowly to lower himself into the armchair. Erestor joined him by the fire, sitting in the free, hard-backed chair.

For a long while they sat in what both considered to be excruciating silence, neither knowing quite how to break the lengthy quiet that plagued them. There were so many things that both Elves wanted to discuss but the oddness of the situation in which they found themselves prevented free conversation to flow.

Legolas found himself fighting the urge to fidget uncomfortably as he willed Aragorn to hurry up and return to the room in the hope the boy could break the tension with his unrestrained questions and quick humour.

Just as the young Elf started physically squirming in his chair due to the intensity of the grey gaze Erestor had unrelentingly fixed upon him, Aragorn's voice called out, "Legolas?" from the bathroom.

Practically leaping from his place with blatantly unnecessary enthusiasm, Legolas strode purposefully to the next room as if Aragorn had screamed that the Dark Lord himself was attempting to drown him in the bath tub, stepped into the bathroom and closed the door gratefully behind him, placing an effective barrier between himself and the Elf that made him so terribly uncomfortable.

"What is it?" Legolas asked the boy, who stood in the centre of the candlelit bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around himself.

"Do I put these clothes back on?" he asked, pointing to the filthy heap of rags on the floor.

"I don't know. Maybe Erestor has something you can borrow. Stay here." Legolas opened the door again and was startled to find the tall Elf stood directly before him, holding out an impeccably folded pile of fresh Elven-made clothes.

"These should fit your human friend."

"Thank you," Legolas said once he'd recovered from his shock, reaching out to take the pile from their host with a weak smile.

Erestor merely nodded slowly and took a stiff step backwards, so Legolas closed the door on him and turned back to Aragorn.

"That was a little creepy," the young man whispered and Legolas could only smile in response, fighting the urge to agree with his ward's straightforward assessment of Erestor's behaviour. He handed Aragorn the clothing then leant up against the wall, folding his arms, causing Aragorn to frown deeply at him. "Are you going to stand there and watch?" he snapped irritably.

"I'm just going to stick around for a moment. I'll keep my eyes closed if it makes you feel more at ease."

Aragorn raised his eyebrows and asked in his normal voice, mocking, "Scared to go out there?"

Scowling, the Elf straightened out, tugged down his tunic in a small act of pride and defiance, and said, "Not at all. I'll leave you to it then."

Rather reluctantly and cursing Aragorn silently for his petty cruelty and amusement, he left the bathroom to find Erestor sat once more in the hard-backed chair, hands folded neatly on his lap. The dark-haired Elf did not look up as Legolas crossed the room but when the blonde Elf slowly lowered himself into the chair opposite, both knowing fully well that Erestor had heard everything said in the bathroom, he met Legolas' eyes and smiled in vague amusement. Legolas returned the gesture more meekly then said softly, "I'm sorry about…"

"Please," Erestor told him gently, raising his delicate hand to halt any further apology. "Things are different now, I understand. It has been a long time since last we saw each other."

Relaxing slightly at the assurance, Legolas agreed, "Yes, it has." He ran his hands down his face then sat back in the soft armchair with a world-weary sigh.

"You aimed for Imladris?"

"Excuse me?"

Erestor rephrased, "Your aim was to come here? You did not simply stumble across the haven by chance?"

"Yes. I mean, yes, we aimed for here. We travelled many leagues to come here, actually."

"How did you know that someone would be here to receive you?" Erestor looked down at his hands almost anxiously now. "I don't know that any other realms are left standing. After Mirkwood…" He stopped when he saw pain flash unguarded in the depths of Legolas' eyes at the mention of the fall of his homeland and he apologised quickly for his slip-up. Mirkwood had been among the first to fall and had been much talked of as the other Elven realms strived to survive the onslaught of Sauron's forces of Shadow.

Disregarding the apology, Legolas answered quietly, "I went to Lorien first."

"And?" Erestor asked, leaning forward almost eagerly in his seat, awaiting news from another Elven realm that actually had better odds at surviving an attack than his own home.

Legolas shook his head sadly, bluntly explaining, "Deserted. We only stayed for one day."

"I see."

Before the dark Elf could ask any further questions on Legolas' travels and the state of the Golden Wood though, the bathroom door opened and Aragorn slouched in wearing the ill-fitting Elven clothes provided by Erestor. He spread his arms, swamped in fabric that hung inelegantly from the ends of his arms when the two Elves turned their heads towards him. Both stared at him for a long moment then, at exactly the same time, the laughter erupted.

Letting his arms drop to his sides, Aragorn snapped, "It's not funny!"

"I did not think it possible to look inelegant in Elven clothing," remarked Erestor mirthfully. "Perhaps they are not designed for Human wear."

"You look fine, Aragorn," Legolas assured him merrily as the boy padded across the floor towards the fire then plopped himself down grumpily in front of the hearth to give his damp hair chance to dry off. "Erestor brought us food." Legolas gestured to the plate on the table, hoping it would placate the irritated man somewhat.

"There's food here?" Aragorn peered over at the plate. "Is it whey bread?"

"No," Erestor smiled kindly.

"Thank you." Before he got up though, Aragorn looked to Legolas for permission.

"Go ahead," Legolas told him, moving his legs out of the way as the boy hurried past him towards the table and the food.

Aragorn brought the plate back to the fire and sat down, cross-legged, on the floor at Legolas' feet. After taking an experimental bite of the delicious fresh bread, Aragorn lifted the plate up towards Legolas but the Elf shook his head in dismissal. He wanted Aragorn to eat first – as always.

"There's plenty," Erestor told Legolas in a pointed manner, as if he knew exactly what thoughts were racing through the blonde Elf's mind in that moment.

"Here," Aragorn held the plate up to his guardian again and this time Legolas took a piece of bread with a smile of thanks.

They ate in silence, Erestor watching them both closely but without comment. Whilst Aragorn seemed oblivious to it, confident that Legolas was alert to everything going around about them and would let him know if he thought anything was wrong, Legolas himself was all too aware of the stare and he squirmed under the force of it.

Once both had eaten their fill, which wasn't much at all, Aragorn leaned back against the side of Legolas' chair, basking in the feeling of being warm, clean and full for the first time in his life.

"That was really good. Did you make that yourself?" the boy asked of their host.

"Indeed."

"Do you do everything here?"

Erestor smiled and answered, "No one but me resides here any longer so it has become necessary for me to do everything myself. Although I must admit that keeping an empty house running is not all that challenging."

"Do many visitors come here?" Legolas asked.

"Once they did. But not any longer I'm afraid."

Legolas nodded and went to ask another question but then Aragorn interrupted with a huge yawn and both Elves looked down at the young man.

"I suppose you must both be tired," their host said in sudden concern, as if only just thinking that he had been neglectful regarding his guests' comfort. "Please, Aragorn, take the bed in here where it is warm. I can find another bed for Legolas."

"We wouldn't wish to banish you from your own room," Legolas told Erestor quickly, even as Aragorn got up to gratefully accept the offer without thought or protest.

"Please," Erestor insisted, once more gesturing toward the mattress and blankets laid out on the floor in a rather cosy-looking arrangement. "You appear to need it far more than I tonight."

Despite this assurance, Aragorn still looked to Legolas for guidance. When the Elf nodded his consent after a moment of thought, Aragorn stepped over to the comfortable-looking bedding, pleased to discover that it was just as warm there as it was on the mat by the fire.

In Elvish, so the human couldn't understand his words, and with an amused smile, Erestor asked, "Does he always ask your permission for everything?"

Legolas' expression hardened, his eyes boring into Erestor's even as he answered proudly, "Yes, he does," in the Common Tongue, making Aragorn look up to the two Elves, guessing that he was being spoken about first in the strange language and now in one he could understand. Legolas' eyes shifted over to the boy and Aragorn could easily identify the anger smouldering behind them. When Legolas turned his gaze to Erestor the anger had been dampened and replaced with a look of hard defiance. "Perhaps it would be best to stick to the Common Tongue of Men considering Aragorn's presence amongst us."

Erestor nodded slowly in understanding, answering in the requested tongue, "Of course. My apologies," he then said to Aragorn, who merely offered the dark-haired Elf a smile of acceptance, even though he wasn't quite sure what it was the Major Domo was apologising for. However, Legolas felt it necessary so he simply played along to his guardian's wishes. "Please, feel free to rest now."

"Thank you," Aragorn said, gratefully climbing beneath the blankets, none of which looked as worn as his own travelling blanket. Luxury, indeed, was provided by the keeper of the House. As he made himself comfortable, he kept his eyes on Legolas, almost anxiously. "You need to sleep as well," he reminded his guardian in a quiet voice.

Legolas smiled kindly at his concern, even though it, as ever, grated on him. "I will. Sleep, Aragorn, I will be right here."

The man nodded and lay down, getting comfortable on the soft mattress, pulling the sheets up around himself. It didn't take long for the exhausted youth to fall asleep. After days of almost non-stop travelling towards Rivendell he was worn out and this was the most comfortable he had been in a long while.

Legolas watched the boy relaxing in the bed in complete silence. He felt the familiar pang of sadness at the boy's condition. Cleaned up, he could see just how thin Aragorn had become in recent months, worse even than he had been when they'd stayed in Lothlorien. They'd been so involved in getting to Rivendell that they'd not stopped long enough to search for food on the road. In his haste to get advice and reassurance from Lord Elrond of Rivendell, Legolas had once again proven himself neglectful of his young charge.

"He was tired," Erestor interrupted Legolas' thoughts quietly, his eyes also on Aragorn as he slept.

"Yes," Legolas sighed in response.

Erestor then turned shrewd grey eyes back to look at the blonde Elf opposite him and said in a soft voice, "And you look tired also, my old friend."

Legolas' eyes met Erestor's only briefly then he looked away again, sitting back in the chair. He simply answered, "Yes," in response.

"The bed is not that big but…"

"I have to ask first: Lord Elrond? Erestor, what happened here? This land is no longer protected by his power, I can feel it. Did he leave for Aman? Please tell me." Legolas asked hopefully, leaning forward in his chair, for the Elf Lord's leaving for the Undying Lands where he could live in peace and serenity was the best outcome Legolas could imagine.

"He is still here, Legolas."

This revelation greatly surprised Legolas and for a long moment he could only sit and stare at the patiently waiting Major Domo until he could think of something vaguely intelligent to say through the haze of confusion.

"Why then is there no life left in Rivendell? Why is the valley dying?"

Shrugging, Erestor slumped back in his own chair, suddenly looking so very tired, a far cry from the effortlessly composed manner he had held up whilst greeting the two guests. "We were attacked mercilessly for decades, besieged from all sides, on all fronts. Our army dwindled daily as the Shadow advanced further across our borders and into the protected haven beyond. No help came no matter how much we pleaded and begged for salvation from any who would listen. Eventually, Lord Elrond had no choice but to call the retreat. But the Shadow was waiting for the moment we broke, waiting for the opportunity to invade the House. With the army increasingly weakened, it was all too easy for them to get at Lord Elrond."

"And to Vilya?" Legolas asked softly of the fabled Ring of Power once worn by the Elven Lord.

Erestor nodded and, almost painfully summoning the memory, said, "He sent his darkest servants. I suppose he didn't want to take any chances with something so powerful, so precious to him. We never stood a chance against the Nazgul." Legolas openly shuddered at the mention of the Black Riders, Sauron's mightiest, most fearsome warriors: nine former Human Ring-bearers, twisted beyond all recognition and now in the service of the Dark Lord Sauron. "They swept into Rivendell and took Vilya from my master."

"And Lord Elrond survived such an ordeal unharmed?"

"Not exactly…unharmed."

A chill ran through Legolas at the ominous words and it was with hesitation that he asked, "What does that mean?"

With a sigh, Erestor explained, "Although Lord Elrond was, by some miracle, not physically harmed in the attack, after he was set upon by the Wraith, he fell, touched by Evil. Arwen saw."

"Arwen," Legolas breathed shakily, leaning forward. "Is she…?"

Erestor nodded, pain shining in his eyes. "He tried to save her when he emerged from the influence of the Shadow but she was beyond all aid by then."

"She never even tried to sail?"

"Even if she had been able to endure the journey to the Havens, the lines of Shadow bordered this land making it impenetrable. She was trapped within her own home to die."

Legolas shook his head sadly. "So she never stood a chance."

"No."

For a moment, Legolas remained deep in thought, considering what horrors his young friend had been through before the end. The bite of the Morgul blade would have led to an awful, painful death, agonising and terrifying in equal measure. No one should have to endure such an end, especially not one so pure and innocent as the young Arwen.

Eventually though, he continued, needing to know all, "What happened to Elrond after that?"

"Nothing," the advisor simply replied. "After Arwen passed, he could not continue. As the war raged on, he just…locked himself away, forsaking all help."

"And all Imladrian residents fell to Shadow?"

"Glorfindel led the army as best he could in lieu of Lord Elrond's guidance, to protect the people but with resources so limited it was an impossible challenge. Elladan and Elrohir tried to hold the lines but…"

"Were they…?"

"In the final battle they realised that there was no hope, so they strived to get as many people out of Imladris as possible before the end came and we were decimated. They only made it as far as the fence constructed around the House's grounds before the Orcs swarmed all over them." Erestor's voice grew quieter, sadder as he spoke and his next sentence was a meagre whisper, broken and fractured. "They left none alive. I could see the fires burning from here."

"All of them?" Legolas asked, his own voice cracking.

Erestor nodded in confirmation, his eyes growing misty at the reminiscence of the brutal slaughter of the innocents of Imladris. "There was no escape for them. The Orcs killed them out of sheer pleasure and bloodlust." He shook his head. "The screams…" Silence filled the room for a long moment before Erestor finished, "The Sanctuary was breached."

All of this sounded so horribly familiar to Legolas and he swallowed thickly as the upsetting description reminded him starkly of the final dark days Mirkwood had endured. He didn't want to dwell on this, so instead he asked, "What of Elrond?"

"The Orcs simply left Imladris after they had slaughtered all those innocents. They just marched right out of Rivendell; they didn't even pause to search for survivors, perhaps because they expected to find none."

"How did you escape?"

"I begged Elrond to leave with the army but he refused to be removed from his chambers."

"He grieved for Arwen."

"Yes, and his sons who he knew would be lost," Erestor nodded. "He insisted that he could not leave his home, not after…everything."

"And that you stay with him?"

Erestor smiled now, melancholy but somehow also proud of the decisions of the past. "He would never ask that. I offered. I couldn't leave him alone, not in the state that he was in. So, I stayed and I watched as my friends were massacred."

At this, Legolas quickly stood from his seat and paced to the window even though it was too dark to see anything outside. All this talk of watching uselessly as loved ones perished was bringing his own dark memories back to the surface and he didn't want to be swallowed by the past, not here, not now.

Frowning, Erestor also stood but did not approach the prince. "Forgive me, Legolas, I did not mean to distress you."

Raising his hand to dismiss the apology, Legolas smiled weakly. "I asked," he reasoned in a whisper. "It just…It all sounds terribly familiar."

Slowly, the advisor took his seat again. "Your kingdom?"

Legolas cleared his throat uncomfortably. "My people…" The words caught in his throat and tears pooled in his eyes, he turned away sharply, not wanting Erestor to witness his personal grief over his own great loss. True, they had once been, if not friends then certainly acquaintances, but even by eternal standards so much had happened since they had last seen one another. Neither of them were the same as they had once been. It no longer felt right for Legolas to confide wholly in the Major Domo of Rivendell's Homely House. Odd, that he should now feel more comfortable speaking to a human than one of his own kind.

When Legolas looked back to Erestor though, the tall, dark Elf was stood directly before him and he startled slightly upon seeing him so close.

"I did not mean to summon up bad memories for you, Prince Legolas," Erestor said genuinely with a respectful nod of his head to accompany the title.

The blonde Elf shook his head, reigning in his long-carried grief for the time being. "There is no need to apologise. It is no fault of yours."

Even though he smiled, Erestor laid his hand softly on Legolas' shoulder, squeezing it in a tight grip and said, "But I am sorry all the same for your losses."

Bowing his head to avoid Erestor's knowing gaze, Legolas chuckled sadly, "It seems we are both in the same boat, old friend."

Legolas suddenly felt Erestor's hand moving slowly to the back of his head, pulling him close into an embrace. His first instinct was to abruptly move away from the offered source of comfort, to reject all peace that might be offered by his one-time acquaintance but the tall Elf's arms held him unyieldingly tight. Held in a gentle hug, Legolas paused for a time, his face pressed lightly into the fine, fresh-smelling fabric of Erestor's shoulder. He hadn't felt so secure since, well, since he was last enfolded in his father's arms all those long years ago.

Painfully slowly and with perhaps unnecessary reluctance, Legolas raised his own arms around the advisor and laid his trembling hands upon Erestor's back, returning the hug. Whilst he himself was disturbingly thin as a result of too little food, Erestor felt broad and strong beneath his hands, seemingly affected very little by the famine encompassing the rest of the lands. The dark Elf was an echo of the normalcy of the distant past that made Legolas' heart ache just to be near. He honestly wasn't sure whether this was a good thing or not but for the moment at least he was willing to indulge himself, to surrender to that deep need for comfort.

So, Legolas closed his tired eyes and buried himself wholly in the familiarity of his past. He felt a warm dampness gathering on Erestor's shoulder and frowned into the fine burgundy fabric of the Elf's tunic. Tears, he realised when he pulled back a little to figure out the source. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he had allowed himself to cry and it unsettled him that he was allowing his defences now to fail in a land that he now considered to be unfamiliar.

Suddenly stepping away, his head bowed, eyes ashamed, Legolas turned his back on Erestor again and, whilst the major domo respectfully moved back to give the prince some space to recover himself, Legolas wiped the tell-tale trails from his face with his sleeves. Then he glanced in Aragorn's direction, pleased to find that the boy remained snoring in deep sleep so he couldn't have witnessed his guardian's moment of weakness.

"Ugh," he sighed, wiping his face again before finally looking back to a perfectly composed Erestor. "I am sorry."

No flush of embarrassment tinted Erestor's cheeks as it did Legolas' as he said, "Please, do not apologise to me."

Legolas sighed deeply again, leaning back against the table he was stood in front of. "Tell me more about Lord Elrond," he then said in a voice wearier but also steadier than before.

"Perhaps, Your Highness, we should pick this up in the morning."

"That is not necessary."

"No doubt you feel the need to clean up. I have fresh clothes for you and a soft bed at…"

"I'm not leaving Aragorn," Legolas protested immediately at his old friend's offer.

"In that case I have a reasonably comfortable divan," Erestor smiled calmly, nodding to the divan in the corner under the window.

"Very well."

"You know where the bathroom is. Use it at your leisure."

Looking towards the open bathroom door, Legolas nodded. "Thank you."

"I'll be here."

"Thank you," Legolas murmured again, this time moving gratefully into the next room.

Whilst Legolas, in the security of the locked room, cleaned himself up, Erestor sat in silence watching Legolas' young charge sleep. He still couldn't help but wonder why on earth his Mirkwood friend would choose to travel with a human. So far Legolas had not deigned to confide in him the reason and the blonde seemed so very secretive and untrusting now that maybe he would never know. Perhaps, Erestor considered, Legolas was not given a choice in the matter. If that was indeed the case then it was rather worrying that the Man should now be staying in the now peaceful Rivendell. After all the chaos and drama Imladris had endured over the past fifty years, Erestor valued peace above all else. Even for Legolas he would hesitate at bringing further trouble to this land.

Eventually, Legolas emerged from the bathroom. After almost an hour at least the blonde looked considerably cleaner than he had upon his arrival. The clothes Erestor had provided for him, clothes that once would have fitted him perfectly, now looked ridiculously oversized on his painfully thin frame. When Erestor had seen Aragorn standing in the doorway of the bathroom swamped by ill-fitting Elven clothing, he had laughed but on Legolas it didn't seem quite so funny. In fact, it was downright heart-breaking.

"You look better," Erestor nevertheless complimented, standing slowly from his seat.

"Thank you."

"I've laid out some blankets and pillows for you on the divan." Legolas nodded in appreciation, blue eyes shifting towards the rather comfortable-looking couch almost awkwardly. "Young Aragorn seems to be resting well now."

"Yes," Legolas smiled softly. "He was worn out. I pushed him hard to get here."

"And pushed yourself too, no doubt." The blonde Elf didn't answer but neither did he look away from Erestor this time, not wanting to show further weakness by becoming completely submissive before the advisor. Standing taller and not backing down, Erestor softened his verbal approach and said gently, "You must be tired, Legolas." He then gestured again to the sofa, stepping aside so Legolas could pass.

Legolas went to sit on the sofa, just about managing to resist the urge to sigh at the sheer comfort the soft cushions provided.

"Well, I have things to do, so I'll leave you to get some sleep," Erestor said to break the tension, much to Legolas immense relief. Although the dark-haired keeper of Imladris was kind enough, Legolas still wasn't entirely sure about being entirely vulnerable with Erestor in the room as he slept. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Legolas smiled falsely as Erestor quietly left the room.

Now alone, Legolas looked over to Aragorn in concern but the boy was still fast asleep despite all that had occurred around him and would probably remain so for what remained of the night at the very least. With no small amount of reluctance, the Elf decided that nothing was stopping him now from climbing into the bed, so he stood up and slid under the fresh blankets Erestor had laid out for him.

The bedding was blissfully warm and dry, which in itself was a novelty. He laid his head on the soft feather pillow and unexpectedly tears pricked his eyes at the familiar yet achingly distant feeling. This felt the most similar to his time at home as anything so far had and it made his heart ache – although surprisingly it was not an entirely unpleasant feeling.

Legolas turned on his side to face the window, mostly to hide his face rather than to look out into the deep night that filled the window. For a long while he laid in silence before his heavy eyelids finally drifted closed.

"Excuse me, I left…" Erestor entered the room again with an apology but he stopped short when he saw that the two honoured guests of Imladris were both now sound asleep. A smile passed over his lips and he stepped over to the young human to blow out the candle near him.

Then he went to where Legolas was laid out on the couch, his bare feet hanging over the end of the short divan. He was too tall for the divan but even so he looked comfortable enough.

Erestor bent down and gently pulled the blanket up over Legolas' shoulders. When the prince murmured something unintelligible at the disturbance, Erestor laid his hand on the blonde Elf's shoulder and quietly whispered, "All will be well now, my old friend." Legolas shifted slightly but didn't wake at the sound of the major domo's voice. "Rest now, Prince of Mirkwood."

As he stepped away, blowing out the other candle so the only light in the room came from the fire in the hearth, Erestor heard Legolas let out a soft sigh.

Once again smiling to himself, Erestor backed out of the room, leaving his old friend and his young companion to sleep.

**To Be Continued…**


	21. The Last Homely House

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed or added me to their favourites/alerts lists or who are just reading this story on the quiet. Enjoy the next chapter.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 21 – The Last Homely House**

Sense returned slowly to Aragorn from the wonderfully blissful depths of sleep. A warm tingling feeling all throughout his body made him frown, for it did not resemble the freezing cold air he'd become used to waking up to on the exposed road in the past couple of winter months but neither did it remind him of the stifling heat that summer mornings sometimes brought out in the wilds. If anything, it brought back memories of evenings spent with the Rangers and his father huddled before a campfire after a meal and prolonged exposure to good company; positively cosy.

But he quickly realised that he was not laid on the hard ground as he'd grown accustomed to doing whilst travelling with Legolas, but rather on a soft, unfamiliar surface. Through the haze of sleep, confusion urged him to open his eyes. He blinked a few times to clear the sleep from his eyes and found himself in a dimly lit room, the majority of the light coming from the fire burning in the hearth. It was no wonder he was so warm, Aragorn mused idly as he glanced with fascination at the flames lapping at exquisitely decorated tile.

Sitting up slowly, Aragorn looked around himself, remembering now that he was in Rivendell, that he'd come here with Legolas during the night, having followed the beacon of light in the window of the House Legolas proclaimed to know so well. He then searched the room with his eyes for his guardian and could only assume that the blanket-shrouded lump on the short sofa on the far side of the room was his travelling companion. He could see no sign of the odd dark-haired Elf who'd met them upon their arrival and brought them to this room to rest. Perhaps that was for the best though. Aragorn still wasn't entirely certain what to make of Erestor.

Once he'd ascertained that he and Legolas were not being observed by their unusual host, Aragorn swung his legs out from under the blankets that had covered him, threw the warm covers aside and stood up. He made his way to the warm bathroom to relieve his full bladder. Obviously, he'd been asleep for longer than he'd first thought although he had no idea what time of day or night it was.

When he went back into the other room, instead of immediately returning to the bed to sleep of the remainder of his grogginess, Aragorn stretched his aching muscles then flopped gracelessly down into the plush armchair that Legolas had sat in earlier as he spoke in quiet tones with Erestor. In front of the fire, the man was warm and cosy and he found himself dozing for a while.

Aragorn startled awake then, not having realised he had fallen asleep again. He sat up straight and rubbed his heavy eyes. Daylight now partially lit the room, leeching through the gaps in the shutters covering the windows.

Stretching again, wincing at the stiffness of his aching muscles, Aragorn yawned widely.

Then the young man got to his feet and looked over to Legolas, who had, it seemed, snuggled even further down into the blankets covering him sometime during the night. Aragorn heard his mentor mumble something in his sleep, although he couldn't figure out what was being said, and tip-toed across the flagstones to lean over and peer down at the sleeping Elf. He couldn't see Legolas' face buried beneath the covers but hoped that he was peaceful. Seldom did he see his tightly-wound guardian sleep in this manner. It warmed him to think that the Elf was resting with some tranquillity.

"Legolas?" Aragorn whispered softly. "Are you awake?" He laid his hand on Legolas' arm but his mentor didn't even stir. "Legolas?" He tried to determine whether his guardian was restless in his repose.

"Aragorn," Erestor's voice startled the boy and he shot up straight, instinctively backing away from the sofa and his guardian as though caught doing something wrong. The tall, dark Elf was stood in the doorway, cold grey eyes staring at his human guest critically. Erestor took a sweeping step into the room then and also peered down at his old friend, saying with almost painful tenderness, "He sleeps still."

"Yes," Aragorn replied simply, unsure of what else Erestor was expecting him to say as he stated the obvious. As before, he was not entirely certain how to take this Elf that although Legolas trusted he couldn't bring himself to do likewise.

"Hm, then let us leave him to rest whilst he is peaceful," Erestor said, lowering his voice to a whisper so as not to disturb the sleeping Legolas as the blonde Elf shifted in his bed. Aragorn looked reluctant to leave the side of his guardian so the dark Elf gently took his elbow and prompted in the manner of a determined parent, "Come with me, child and I'll get you some breakfast. He will be well after some rest."

With no small amount of reluctance, Aragorn nodded in agreement so Erestor led him from the room, closing the door noiselessly behind him and leaving Legolas to sleep in peace.

Aragorn followed Erestor slowly through the corridors of Rivendell, noticing for the first time now that it was daylight the sheer beauty of the place. Mostly left open to the elements, even the simple corridors were more splendid than anything Aragorn had ever seen before, even in the other fantastical Elven realm he had visited in his life. Everything he'd seen prior to the Elven realms of Lothlorien and now Rivendell had been bleakly simple and purely functional, as the new world dictated they must be in order to endure. Beauty and art had no place in Sauron's world and the lands of the Dark Lord, and those of his disloyal subjects, belayed that. But in the lands of the Elves, even though evil and barrenness still obviously seeped into the land around them, the ancient structures remained as beautiful as Aragorn imagined them to have been before war devastated the world around them.

Overawed by the splendour of his surroundings, Aragorn's attention wandered so that he ended up walking straight past the door Erestor had stepped through on their way.

Erestor cleared his throat in amusement, making the human stop short then retrace his steps with a sheepish smile. "Wait in here and I'll bring you in some food."

Aragorn nodded in acquiescence so the Elf left him alone again, silently slipping through another thick door. For a minute, Aragorn stood stiffly in the doorway where he had been left, a little unsure of what he should do in this foreign place. Erestor had not specifically told him to remain in one place though, so he turned on the spot to face the room in which he'd been left.

This room was nothing short of spectacular to his young eyes. It may have been comparatively simple considering the intricacy displayed in what other parts of the house Aragorn had seen fleetingly so far but the sheer volume of treasures lining the walls was in itself breath-taking.

Lit only by the daylight shining in through the ceiling-high windows, the room was obviously used regularly although it was by no means tidy. In fact, even given the seeming Elven propensity towards disorganised clutter, it was exceptionally messy. A smile passed over Aragorn's lips when he imagined the impeccable, formal Elf frantically searching frantically through the towering piles that filled the room for whatever particular treasure he sought.

Aragorn walked over to one of the high stacks of books, careful to avoid knocking over any of the many piles of similar tomes towering all around him on the fine richly decorated carpet, and carefully ran his finger over the dusty leather spines in interest.

"Quite an amazing space, is it not?"

Erestor's return once again startled Aragorn and he span around suddenly, knocking the top few books from the pile on his right to fall to the carpeted floor with a heavy thud. He wondered why on earth the Rivendell Elf felt the need to be quite so stealthy in his appearances. It couldn't possibly be simply because he was an Elf. Legolas was never quite so sneaky.

Bending down to pick up the books he had dropped, Aragorn immediately defended himself, "I didn't mean to pry."

As the boy carefully restacked the books he'd knocked over back onto the precariously balanced pile, Erestor waved away his concerns, laying the tray of food he was carrying on the large desk by the windows. "If I hadn't wanted you to pry then I wouldn't have left you here alone."

"What is this place?"

"This," Erestor explained, "is Lord Elrond's private study and Imladris' main library, although it was never meant to be. But necessity has made it so…" He shrugged indifferently, sent a despairing look around the disorganised room crammed with books and papers, then looked back to his guest with a wearisome smile. "Please help yourself." He pointed to the bowl of steaming food on the desk. "So many books ended up here over the years that no one bothered to return them to their true place of keeping. I'm not sure I have the inclination to do so now."

Picking up the bowl of white gloop that Erestor had passed off as 'breakfast', Aragorn commented, "It's a little…muddled."

At this, the Elf openly laughed but at the same time nodded in complete agreement. "Yes, that is indeed an apt description of it."

Upon eating a spoonful of the unquantifiable white food provided for him, Aragorn found it to be actually rather pleasant to the taste. It didn't take long for him to scrape every last scrap of the food away and then look back to Erestor, who had now perched himself elegantly on the sill of the tall window to watch his guest.

The Elf seemed to be lost in thought as he stared openly at the man. Aragorn recognised that faraway look in his eyes – he'd seen it often enough in Legolas in the past.

He placed the bowl down with a purposeful clatter to announce that he'd finished and went over to join his host. As he stepped towards the dark-haired being, Aragorn's footfalls echoed loudly around the big, tall room. He looked up as he walked to the high, vaulted ceiling, which was decorated with, admittedly dulling through the passage of time, but nevertheless beautifully coloured motifs. Wondrous images, the like of which he had never set eyes upon before, dazzled him.

He looked back down at the floor as a rustling sound joined that of his footsteps on the carpet and found that this part of the room was littered with the fallen leaves from many yellowing books.

Aragorn shuddered slightly, an unexpected reaction. Far from the cosy, homeliness of the room where he'd spent the night resting easily, this library felt more like a tomb than a home. The many volumes lining the walls and all the knowledge on a vast array of subjects many of which were no doubt beyond him contained within was, in the wake of the changing of the world, now rendered entirely irrelevant and felt somehow cold. Aragorn ran his fingers over the dusty leather bindings and even though he could not fathom the words that rested within, he felt a deep sense of sadness at their fate, the vast irrelevant knowledge seeped into every single useless yellowing page never again to serve its purpose.

"These are beautiful."

"Yes," Erestor mumbled absently.

Turning to the advisor, Aragorn asked in interest, "Have you read them all?" Erestor looked just studious enough to achieve such a feat.

At this, the Elf stirred from his reverie with a soft chuckle. "No. Even with an eternal life, I would never find the time."

"Maybe Lord Elrond has then?"

"Perhaps," Erestor conceded with a shrug. "And Legolas certainly tried to get through as many as he could whenever he came to visit."

"He did?"

"Oh yes. He loved the library above all else, he always spent as much time as he could in here."

His interest piqued, Aragorn asked, "Did he come to Rivendell often?"

"As often as his duties in Mirkwood would allow. He always found peace here, I believe. He valued the quiet Imladris offered."

"He couldn't find peace and quiet in Mirkwood?"

"Rarely, I fear. Mirkwood was a kingdom torn apart by war even before the reign of Shadow. There was scarce opportunity for him to get away from the fighting."

"It must have been very lonely for him," Aragorn mused sadly, thinking of Legolas being denied a place where he found genuine rest for perhaps years on end.

The boy was startled when this prompted loud laughter from the Elven advisor. "I don't think Legolas was ever lonely a day in his life," he exclaimed in amusement. "All those people looking up to him, seeking his love and approval; it was impossible for him to feel alone."

"Because he was a great warrior?" Aragorn asked, recalling the skill and bravery Legolas had always shown when in battle along with the sparse details about his past life he had chosen to divulge over the years.

"The greatest in Mirkwood. And the best archer on all Arda according to most."

This was the most Aragorn had ever learned about Legolas in all the years travelling with him. It was most definitely more than Legolas would ever speak of himself. And now Aragorn found that he wanted to know more about his enigmatic guardian from one who clearly knew him.

"What was Legolas like? Before the war, I mean."

Erestor moved from the windowsill to sit instead on the chair behind the huge wooden desk. "Well," he sighed, trying to decide where to start with his knowledge of the blonde Elf he had once gotten to know so well. "He was a formidable warrior, but I suppose you already know that." Aragorn smiled proudly in confirmation. "He was kind, steady and fair, even when those around him found it difficult to keep their composure."

Erestor restlessly got to his feet again and gestured for Aragorn to follow him across the room. He led the human to the far wall and nodded towards a large map pinned amongst many others, faded and wrinkled and written in a language that Aragorn could not read.

"A map of Mirkwood," Erestor explained then pointed to a few different positions amidst the mass of trees. "Dol Guldur, stronghold of the Shadow. The palace of Mirkwood. The Old Forest Road."

"This," Aragorn whispered as he traced his fingers over the line representing the length of road – the road he had spent years wandering with Legolas. "We were so close. He never said." They had been so very close to Legolas' home all that time. No wonder the Elf had been so reluctant to leave what he knew to be close to that which he obviously loved. "Was Mirkwood like Rivendell?"

"A land ravaged by constant war, Mirkwood had no protective guardian as Imladris had in Lord Elrond or Lothlorien had in Lady Galadriel. King Thranduil was an undeniably formidable ruler but one more often associated with a commander than a steward of his lands. But Mirkwood had beauty beneath the darkness brought by Shadow. Beauty resounded throughout its great forests and rivers. Legolas was always exceptionally proud of what he had created, even in the times when peace was elusive."

"He helped shape Mirkwood?"

"Of course. Despite his position he always fought alongside the army he commanded."

"Was he very important, then?"

Erestor chuckled softly but still answered, "Son of the king; so pretty important I would say."

Aragorn looked up sharply at the dark-haired Elf, stunned by this new and unprecedented information. "Son of the king?" he whispered in amazement. "Legolas was Mirkwood's prince?"

"You didn't already know that?" Erestor asked, obviously surprised.

The boy shook his head softly. "No, he never told me."

"Ah," Erestor muttered regretfully, bowing his head. "It seems I have spoken out of turn."

"No, not at all. I just…I wonder why he never confided in me."

"I'm sure he had his reasons, Aragorn."

"What reasons could there be for such deception?" the man snapped irritably.

"That I don't know, I'm afraid."

"Was…was he a bad prince?"

Frowning deeply, Erestor said, "Why would you ask that?"

Slowly, Aragorn sat down on the edge of the desk taking a moment to gather his thoughts before saying softly, "He told me that when the armies of Shadow invaded the palace, he ran away and left the remainder of his people to die."

Erestor sighed heavily at this new troubling information and leaned back in his seat, which creaked ominously under even his slight weight. "If that is so then he must have had a fair reason for doing so. Legolas was no coward." At this, Aragorn had to nod in agreement. Cowardice had never been a trait he associated with his guardian; quite the opposite in fact, Legolas was staunchly courageous. "Anyway, this conversation, child, should be reserved for your guardian. It is not my place to speak of Legolas' past." Once more Aragorn nodded, lowering his eyes to the desk. "There are some things I have to take care of now. Feel free now to return to Legolas and take some more rest."

As Erestor rose gracefully from his chair, Aragorn also shot up and eagerly asked, "What kind of things?"

"Even abandoned, Imladris does not run itself."

"Can I help you then?"

"You wish to help me in my chores?" the major domo asked sceptically.

"Well, I don't feel like lying in bed all day and I don't want to disturb Legolas."

"No, he needs to rest," Erestor quickly agreed. "Very well then," he decided, "you may come along with me."

Aragorn followed Erestor around the enchanting House of Elrond for the rest of the morning. The Elf's duties were, Aragorn discovered as he shadowed him, exceptionally diverse. He did everything from preparing food in the kitchen to stoking the massive furnace, which Erestor explained was what heated the water rather than the magic Aragorn had suspected the night before as he took a hot bath, to chopping up fresh wood to fuel the fires.

Erestor actually found the boy to be quite useful. Despite his comparatively short stature and thin frame, he was hard-working and seemed fascinated and excited in equal measure by the medial tasks Erestor appointed him. Clearly, he had never had to perform any of these kinds of chores before and it excited him to learn. He asked questions constantly, drinking in all the information his knowledgeable Elven host could provide him with. The Elven house was simply vast, Aragorn discovered as they walked around. Hundreds of rooms lined the open hallways, most of them locked up and no doubt fallen into disrepair after decades of neglect.

It was the high ceilings that enchanted Aragorn the most though; the amount of obvious effort and detail that had been poured into something so rarely scrutinised was extraordinary. Beautiful murals, faded over time, graced both the vaulted ceilings and the walls and although Aragorn had no idea what the images represented he was nevertheless enthralled by the sheer splendour of them.

"My lord Elrond long ago serving as herald to Lord Gil-Galad," Erestor explained when he caught Aragorn admiring one particularly large mural on a wooden panel affixed to the wall. "This is Gil-Galad here." He pointed to the faded image of a powerful-looking, dark-haired Elf in blue armour and a deep blue cloak, wielding an enormous, vicious spear, towering above all the other subjects in the painting, face set in grim determination. "And my lord, Elrond." Erestor next touched the painting of a slightly shorter figure bearing the same colouring and armour as his commander Gil-Galad. In his hand he held a banner, colours so faded they were impossible now to make out, flying proudly in the breeze. Despite the fact that he was obviously in Gil-Galad's service, Elrond seemed proud to be stood beside his formidable commander. The faded colours, Aragorn was certain, did neither Elf justice if the real-life Erestor was anything to go by. To see them in true life must have been quite something.

"Are they at war?" Aragorn asked after taking a while to examine the painting.

"Yes, but not the war you know."

"There were others?"

As they started walking again, Erestor chuckled, "Legolas did not teach you much by the way of Elven history, I see."

Bristling at the apparent slight regarding Legolas' raising and teaching of him, Aragorn replied distastefully, "He has taught me what I need to survive. What more is there to know?"

Erestor stopped in his tracks and appeared mortified that Aragorn had taken his words as an insult. He bowed slightly, saying, "I meant no offence to you or to Legolas. Of course survival is the most important lesson in these times and Legolas has clearly taught you well in that regard." Aragorn nodded in acceptance of the apology, even though to him Erestor still seemed a little insincere and not quite as contrite as his elegant words implied. However, the Elf started walking again and he followed, eager for yet more information. "King Gil-Galad ruled the Noldor Elves in the First Age of the Sun. He was a great king and general. He led the Elves during the War of the Last Alliance of Men and Elves."

This really caught Aragorn's attention. An alliance between Men and the Elves was an interesting concept to Aragorn and one that he had never even considered to be possible before and yet according to this obviously learned Elf, it had happened in the past. In all their time travelling together, Erestor was the only remotely friendly person that he and Legolas had met. Certainly, they had not encountered any humans who were even sane, let alone friendly and helpful enough to form an alliance with and Aragorn had certainly never come across another Elf before, nor had Legolas ever spoken of meeting another on his travels.

"An alliance?" Aragorn questioned before the Elf could continue any further with his story.

"Indeed. When the Dark Lord Sauron first rose to power during the First Age and waged war on the free world, the Elves aligned with the Humans of Gondor and Arnor, the ancient twin kingdoms, and marched with fury and strength on Mordor."

"Did they succeed?"

"Indeed they did," Erestor smiled grimly in response. "Many died, hundreds in that final battle alone, and the land remained ever cursed, steeped in the blood of the brave and the true. Through their sacrifices though, they drove back the army of the Shadow despite the odds and destroyed Sauron – or so they believed at the time."

"But he lived."

"Resurrected in the tower of Barad-Dur," the Elf confirmed darkly. "Gaining power over the years, he soon gathered to him his dark forces and…well, you have lived long enough in the wake of his rule to know the outcome of his second bid at domination."

Aragorn nodded thoughtfully, knowing fully well the horror that Sauron had brought upon the lands. "So I suppose there is no hope left." he said quietly.

"That, my young friend, is a question for more powerful and insightful beings than myself," Erestor said with a sharp, self-deprecating laugh.

"Like who?"

Erestor shook his head, smiling once again. "I'm afraid I know not."

Aragorn sighed in disappointment. Yet another person telling him that they had no idea of what was to come. Legolas had come to Rivendell with the intent of finding answers but Aragorn didn't believe, listening to Erestor, that he'd find them in the remaining Elf in the realm.

"Here we are," Erestor eventually told Aragorn, stopping before a set of tall, double doors. "You wait here for just a moment. This chore I must do alone."

Leaving Aragorn standing rather bemused in the corridor, Erestor stepped up to the doors and tapped gently but did not pause for an answer before opening the door and stepping inside. Curious as to who or what lay beyond, Aragorn shuffled closer and tried to peer into the room Erestor had just disappeared into but from his current angle he could not see much at all. So, quietly so he didn't alert the keen-eared Erestor to his actions, he moved closer still, looking through the gap where the Elf had failed to close the door fully.

The room was dark, the heavy drapes drawn securely over the tall windows. Erestor was stood by a desk crammed with books and scrolls, laying out the food he had brought from the kitchens, but Aragorn could see another tray piled with plates of uneaten meals also laid on the table, so whoever Erestor was feeding obviously wasn't eating his offerings. Aragorn could see Erestor speaking, but the words were far too quiet for him to catch from this distance and he suspected that even if he had been standing next to the major domo at the time he would not have understood what was being said.

After a moment, Erestor crossed the room in long strides and Aragorn also moved so he could follow the Elf's movements with his eyes. Taking the tray, Erestor walked towards the fireplace, only embers glowing as the fire had burned down, and stopped by a large armchair. He knelt down and appeared to lay the tray gently on the lap of the chair's occupant.

Then Erestor spoke again and although Aragorn could now hear the words, as he'd predicted earlier, he couldn't understand their meaning; they were spoken in the same language the Elf had used with Legolas when they first met. He could discern from his tone of voice, however, that Erestor sounded concerned.

Another voice came then, this one softer, hoarse, as if little used. Once again it was spoken in the beautiful yet infuriating foreign language that Aragorn could not translate. A pale white, dreadfully frail hand was laid weakly on Erestor's shoulder as if to placate him and the Elf bowed his head respectfully at the touch. The second, new voice came again, followed by a weary sigh as the figure's hand was slowly withdrawn.

Erestor spoke again, sadly, then stood up with a much firmer command, a single word but impossible for Aragorn to understand.

After that, the boy quickly retreated back, away from the door as Erestor returned to the table then headed from the room. Once the door was closed on the strange person Erestor was looking after, the Elf smiled grimly at the boy, who stood uncomfortable at spying on that which the major domo obviously had not wanted him to see.

"I should take these back to the kitchens," Erestor said, nodding to the plates piled on the tray in his hands.

"And I think I should return to Legolas now," Aragorn said, already backing away, eager to tell his guardian all about this new development in Rivendell.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes; he'll be wondering where I am if he wakes and finds me missing. I would not alarm him."

"Very well. Can you find your way back on your own?"

"Of course," Aragorn answered with certainty.

"Alright then," Erestor muttered under his breath in confusion as the boy had already slid around the corner out of view and Erestor could now hear his hastily retreating footsteps. Increasingly baffled by the strange child Prince Legolas had aligned himself with, the major domo shook his head then turned away to finish off his chores alone.

Meanwhile, Aragorn raced through the deserted corridors until, panting for breath, he reached the room where he and Legolas were staying. He found that even though his guardian remained sound asleep, sprawled inelegantly out on the couch by the window, he was glad, relieved to be back in Legolas' comforting presence.

For a while, Aragorn paced before the fire, torn between waking Legolas and telling him everything he had learned during his morning spent with their host and leaving the Elf to sleep. Every so often he would cast an anxious glance towards the closed door, convinced that Erestor would return unexpectedly and rob him of his chance to air his disquiet before Legolas.

Fortunately, he never had to make the decision himself, as Legolas started to wake after a short while. Slowly, the Elf stretched out his seemingly cramped long limbs, feet dangling over the end of the too-short couch, and yawned widely as he emerged from sleep. When his eyes opened gradually, Legolas found himself looking directly up at a frowning Aragorn.

"What's wrong?" Legolas asked immediately, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"Nothing is wrong," Aragorn assured right away, taking a step back.

Legolas, however, observed, "You are hovering."

Aragorn perched on the edge of the divan, shoving Legolas' legs aside a little so he could fit. "I have been with Erestor all morning."

"And?" Legolas asked around a yawn, running his hands down his face again in an attempt to clear the fuzzy disorientation from his head.

"I was helping him with his chores around the house," Aragorn continued to quickly confide, his words so rushed that Legolas had a job to understand them, "and he went into this room and there was someone else in there with him. I think it was another Elf, like you, because he spoke the same kinds of words you and Erestor used with each other before." He felt immensely better now that he had shared this information with his mentor and Legolas could now decide what to make of it all.

"You met Lord Elrond?" The Elf suddenly seemed more interested.

"I don't know who it was; I was watching from the doorway."

"Spying?"

"No! Well, yes. But how else are we supposed to find out anything? Erestor is keeping quiet."

"Lord Elrond is still in Rivendell; I'm sure that must have been who you saw," Legolas placated.

"But I thought Erestor said that he was all alone here."

"Yes, he did."

"He lied to me but told you the truth."

Legolas smiled and laid his hand on Aragorn's arm before swinging his legs around the boy to get up. "He trusts me only because he knows me, Aragorn. Do not take offence."

Aragorn looked uncertainly down at the creased bedding his guardian had just vacated and said in a quiet voice, "He showed me Lord Elrond's study."

"Did he?"

The boy nodded then continued, "He also showed me a map of your home."

Legolas froze in the task of doing up the buttons that had popped open on his too-big shirt as he had slept and Aragorn saw his shoulders slump slightly in defeat. "I see." Suddenly, seeing the renewed sadness in his mentor, Aragorn wished he could retract his words but Legolas was not now going to allow him to pretend that nothing had been said. "What else did Erestor tell you?"

Aragorn, still annoyed, nevertheless answered calmly and truthfully. "He said that you were the son of the king; the Prince of Mirkwood." Legolas bowed his head and nodded thoughtfully but did not say anything in response. After a while of that much-despised silence, however, Aragorn again spoke in the same soft tone. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Legolas abruptly jumped to his feet, not looking back at Aragorn as he stalked to the fire to warm his chilled hands. "Because," he answered after a tense moment, "I didn't think it was important."

"Not important? You ruled over Mirkwood."

"Yes, 'ruled', past tense. There is no Mirkwood anymore and there wasn't any Mirkwood when I met you and your father that day, so my title didn't mean anything. It didn't matter," Legolas explained in an emotionlessly flat voice.

"Well, it matters to me."

Legolas turned to the boy sharply, something akin to anger flaring in his eyes. "Why?" he demanded harshly. "What difference should it make to you? I am exactly the same person to you that I was yesterday, am I not?"

Getting up himself, Aragorn angrily retorted, "It _matters_ because you lied to me! All that talk about me being of royal blood, of being the one to reunite the scattered world of Men and you didn't think that your experience as a ruler would be of any importance to me?"

"No, it is not!" Legolas finally shouted back, losing his temper. "My past is mine alone to bear and it is utterly irrelevant to your current situation."

"Don't you think I deserved to know the truth?"

"No, Aragorn. You do not get to know every dark detail about me."

"Why not? You're my guardian."

"And you are my ward. I decide what is for the best," Legolas snapped back shortly.

"In case you have forgotten, you haven't always had the best track record when it comes to your decisions. Lothlorien, for instance."

"Aragorn…"

"Fine; you don't trust me then keep your secrets. I don't care!" With that, the boy strode to the door, shoved past a startled Erestor, and stormed away from his guardian.

"Excuse me," Erestor said softly as he stepped into the room, once more feeling guilty interrupting what seemed to be a private moment between the companions.

Legolas sighed heavily, moving back over to his sofa bed and sitting on the edge. "My apologies, Erestor," he said for Aragorn's behaviour as he ran his hands down his face, this time in despair.

"Please," the major domo shook off the apology. "I brought some food in the hope you would be awake."

"Thank you. That is very kind." Legolas took the bowl of porridge from Erestor gratefully. "I hope that our being here is not dramatically depleting your resources."

"Our stores have sustained us thus far. It is my honour to share all I have with you and your ward, Your Highness."

"Please…please, don't call me that," Legolas requested, swallowing the wonderfully hot food.

"Of course, if you wish," Erestor agreed. "Will your young friend be alright?"

Legolas looked toward the door through which Aragorn had just angrily disappeared. "He'll be fine. He merely needs some time away from me to cool down."

"I fear that I may have unintentionally caused some difficulty between the two of you." Legolas did not look up at him but his silence was confirmation enough for the observant advisor. "I thought you would have told him sooner or I would not have spoken of your homeland."

"I suppose I should have been truthful with him."

"I do understand why you found it hard."

Legolas did not respond but continued to eat his food steadily. His mind never drifted far from Aragorn though. He didn't like it one bit when the boy stormed off in a rage; more often than not it led to some kind of trouble on Aragorn's part. Of course, rationally, Legolas knew that in Imladris, Aragorn would be perfectly safe and yet worry still gnawed at his mind.

After his bowl had been scraped empty, Legolas started the conversation up again with, "Aragorn mentioned that he saw you speaking to Lord Elrond earlier."

"Ah, I guessed he might have seen, the way he ran away. Lord Elrond is not keen on visitors. He has been denied company for so long. I did not want him to frighten the boy."

"I don't want Aragorn anywhere near him. The child is confused enough as it is."

"What has he to be confused about?"

For only a second did Legolas wonder whether telling Erestor everything he'd come to Imladris to discuss with Elrond would actually be for the best but although the trust between the two Elves had grown significantly since Legolas' unexpected appearance the night before, he still did not feel comfortable discussing Aragorn's dilemma with the major domo. Perhaps if Elrond proved unable to help then he would turn the problem over to the wise advisor of Imladris instead.

Realising after a moment's silence that he was not going to get an answer, Erestor stood from his position, held out his hand for Legolas' empty bowl and said, "Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude."

"I just…I have to speak with Lord Elrond first."

"I understand."

"May I speak with your Lord now?"

"I have informed him of your presence in Rivendell."

"And?"

Erestor sighed wearily, seeming to Legolas deflated for the first time. "My Lord does not speak much these days. I could not tell you what his reaction to your coming will be."

"I must try, Erestor. It is important I speak with him."

The dark-haired Elf nodded in understanding. "Very well, Legolas. I shall bring you some clean clothes and warn Elrond of your coming."

"Thank you."

With a sharp nod of his head, Erestor left the room.

When he returned, true to his word, he brought fresh clothes, which Legolas quickly pulled on in the privacy of the bathroom.

"You look better," Erestor commented when Legolas emerged wearing a set of clothes that so much resembled the formal wear he would once have worn in this kind of situation that it made him feel rather uncomfortable. "Come, I will take you now to Lord Elrond."

**To Be Continued…**


	22. Elrond Peredhel

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 22 – Elrond Peredhel**

As Legolas followed the quiet major domo through the distantly familiar hallways, he felt nerves beginning to niggle at him. He didn't know why he should be nervous about this upcoming meeting exactly. He and Elrond had been friends once, long ago. And even if the Elven Lord didn't recognise him it should not matter; he would simply get what he needed from the wise one and leave armed with information and renewed confidence. The trouble was, Legolas realised as he mulled these thoughts over on his way to see the Lord of Rivendell, he still wasn't entirely certain what it was he actually needed and wanted from the ancient, wise Elf he had once called friend; much in the same way as he had not known what he needed or wanted from Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn when he'd dragged Aragorn all the way to Lothlorien. And yet, just like on the road to Lorien, he'd felt oddly compelled to return to Rivendell, to seek advice and help from one he considered to be infinitely more enlightened than himself.

"Legolas, we're here," Erestor's loud voice echoed in his head, startling Legolas from his overly confused thoughts and he looked up to find the other Elf had stopped before a set of tall doors that Legolas immediately recognised to be the entrance to Lord Elrond's private chambers. "Just through there. He is expecting you." Erestor opened the door to the dark room for him. "I hope you find all you are looking for."

Swallowing nervously and ignoring Erestor's somewhat pessimistic tone, Legolas smiled, "Thank you." And then he stepped across the threshold somewhat uncertainly. He had no cause to be nervous and yet he lingered in the doorway long after Erestor had left him alone. No sound came from the dark room but the crackling from the fire burning in the hearth in the soft, almost cosy lounge area. The room was unusually sparse, only a couch, table – admittedly piled high with all manner of clutter - and an armchair. It was this final, supposedly innocuous piece of furniture that kept Legolas frozen to the spot – or rather the pale figure who occupied it.

Unsure whether Elrond had even heard his entrance, Legolas pushed the door closed quietly, even though there was no one left around to interrupt them, then took a couple of steps towards the seemingly oblivious Elrond, his heart pounding hard in his chest as he approached.

As Legolas came to his side, Elrond cocked his head slightly and said in a husky voice, "You can leave the tray, Erestor," and held out a plate still containing food with a trembling hand for his advisor to take.

Legolas, unsure of what else to do, reached out and took the plate without comment.

After a moment on continued quiet, Elrond sighed softly, leaning his head back. "No lecture for me today, Erestor?"

The blonde opened his mouth to speak but could think of nothing to say to break the ice. Erestor had forewarned him that the Lord of Imladris had changed drastically over the years and yet he still did not feel entirely prepared for all this. The words were not those of the strong, unflappable Elrond. They sounded somehow wrong and Legolas did not know what to make of this new Elrond sat before him.

"Hm," Elrond mused in a voice that even though recognisable to Legolas still seemed disconcertingly unfamiliar. "The silent treatment? A little below you as a form of protest, my old friend."

Clearing his throat so he was able to speak at last, Legolas softly corrected him in his own language, "It is not Erestor, Lord Elrond."

Confusion creased the dark-haired Elf's face and he turned his head slightly towards the voice, revealing pale gaunt features, made to look even sharper by the flickering orange firelight, and shining brown eyes. "Then who?" he asked even though he was squinting through the dim light straight at his blonde guest.

Stepping closer, Legolas laid his hand hesitantly upon Elrond's frail arm and declared, "It is I. Legolas."

The Elven Lord's frown morphed into a sudden look of surprise but then a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, looking strange as if it hadn't performed the action in a long time. "Legolas," he chuckled gladly around the word, reaching over to delicately pat Legolas' hand, which remained resting lightly on his arm. "Yes, Erestor said you had come." He laughed softly to himself again and admitted, "I confess, I did not quite believe him."

"I can understand that."

Elrond smiled across at him. "I was beginning to think no one would ever come."

"I understand that too."

Legolas moved around the front of the chair and Elrond's eyes followed him closely. The prince of Mirkwood crouched before him.

"Lord Elrond, I have come a long way to speak with you."

"Yes, of course." Elrond released Legolas' hand at last and sat up straighter in his chair, attempting to appear more business-like before the prince although it didn't quite have the desired effect. He just looked…old. "Shall I have Erestor bring you some tea?"

"No, thank you, sir. He has taken good care of me since my arrival."

"I have no doubt. He is a good assistant." Legolas nodded in agreement, a little concerned by both the fact that Elrond referred to his old friend and most trusted advisor as a mere 'assistant' and also by Elrond's seeming continued lack of coherency as he spoke. "Please," Lord Elrond offered, "Sit down."

Legolas slowly stood then pulled up a chair close to the Lord of Rivendell and sat before him so they could speak.

"So, tell me why you are here, Thranduilion."

"I came here to seek the council of the Wise."

This seemed to amuse Elrond as he smiled and adjusted the front of his fine, burgundy and gold robes, which were by now horribly creased and ill-fitting on his emaciated form, almost proudly. "My help?" he asked cheerily.

"Yes, sir. I require your advice on a problem I have."

Changing from entertained to serious in an instant, Elrond folded his hands and rested them in a neat clasp in his lap before nodding solemnly then prompting, "Continue."

"What do you know of the line of Isildur?"

Elrond frowned but answered, "I know that it is long lost, beyond all reach."

"I have it on good authority that it has been found," Legolas told him, wanting to gauge the Elven Lord's reaction before delivering his main news.

The older Elf chuckled softly and leaned forward to pat Legolas' knee, like a father amused at his child's juvenile views. "My dear Legolas."

"Then you do not believe it possible that this is so?"

Leaning back in his chair, Elrond confidently said, "That line is long dead." Melancholy touched his voice as he added, "Along with all else in this forsaken world."

"And if I told you that I _knew_ it to be true?"

"How could you possibly? Even before the War it had become untraceable even to those knowledgeable of the line." The Elf smiled again and asked of Legolas, "Why do you ask this?"

"Because I travel with Isildur's heir," Legolas responded simply then fell quiet as the statement sank in with the wide-eyed Elven lore master.

For a long while only the soft crackle of the fire filled the deep quiet as Elrond mulled over what Legolas had just told him. Clearly he was trying to decide whether Legolas was lying or merely misguided, for surely it could not be the honest truth that he spoke.

Eventually, Elrond spoke again, "How could you know?"

"Because I have travelled with and guided him for twelve years now." Legolas couldn't help but feel just a little smug at the plainly astonished look on Elrond's face at this revelation. "His father died twelve years ago and proclaimed me his tutor and guardian. Before his death, Arathorn told me of his true lineage and Aragorn's rightful place upon the throne of Gondor."

Once more there was a long, thick silence then Elrond drew in a deep breath of amazement. He slowly began to lever himself out of his chair but the simple movement looked so awkward with his stick-thin limbs and laboured breathing that Legolas felt compelled to also stand so that he could take the Elven ruler's arm to steady him in case he toppled in his obvious weakness. Elrond though ignored the wordless offer of help and walked shakily towards the tall, thickly curtained windows.

"Well," he mused helplessly to himself, uncertain as to what to add.

Legolas watched as the Elven Lord slowly dragged the heavy, dust-covered drapes across the mucky, smeared windows to allow a little natural light into the oppressive bedroom. Once again, Elrond appeared deep in thought although worryingly Legolas could not be certain that it was about what he hoped.

After a long while, during which the blonde Elf watched his once-friend and confidante staring vacantly through the glass, Legolas finally prompted, "Well, Lord Elrond?"

Elrond turned to look at him as though seeing him for the first time. Then his deep brown eyes cleared again and he shook his head to bring himself back to sense. "Well," he started again, wobbly as he made his way to the table to pick up a glass pitcher that he discovered, rather annoyingly, to be empty of wine. "It is quite a claim you make, Prince Legolas."

Legolas flinched at the use of his formal title but decided not to further confuse things by complaining about it now. "And what do you think of it?"

"Of what?"

Resisting the urge to sigh in his frustration, Legolas answered with forced calm, "Of Aragorn."

"Aragorn?"

"Isildur's heir." Perhaps, Legolas thought, it was a mistake seeking advice from one who could not even grasp the most basic of concepts.

However, Elrond raised his hand calmly and corrected himself, "What of Isildur's heir?" He cocked his head in question at the hopeful look now on the younger Elf's face and asked a little harshly, "What is it you think you have here, Legolas?"

Stepping closer, Legolas said in a voice bordering on excited, "Don't you see? He is our chance."

"To do what?"

As though it were the most obvious thing in the world, Legolas exclaimed, "To end this war for good. To restore order once more."

Another stunned period of silence followed Legolas excitable declaration. The blonde Elf waited, barely clinging onto his patience, as Elrond absorbed his hopeful proposition. Then, to Legolas' intense disappointment, the Lord of Rivendell laughed.

"It is not a joke, Lord Elrond," Legolas snapped irritably as his hopes were effectively dashed in one simple gesture.

"No," Elrond agreed, sobering, "it is merely ludicrous."

"Why?" the prince demanded.

"_Why_?" Elrond echoed in disbelief. "Where do I begin?" He slowly made his way back to his worn armchair but this time Legolas purposefully made no move to help him. "No, let us start with the fact that the child's identity is completely unverifiable."

"Not so," Legolas interrupted, also returning to his seat and reaching inside the pocket in his shirt to pull out a small leather pouch. "Before he died, Arathorn also gave me this." He untied the string and bent forward to tip out the pouch's contents into the palm of Elrond's hand: a small silver ring.

"The ring of Barahir," he breathed in amazement at the small object resting in his hand. "The ring of the House of Isildur." Elrond turned the ring, bearing two serpents with tiny emerald eyes, over in his hand in wonder. "But this was lost."

"And now found again."

"How is this possible, Thranduilion?"

"This is proof enough for you?"

"How did you get this?"

"From its rightful owner, sir."

"Isildur's heir," Elrond pondered but then his eyes sharpened again and he thrust the ring back towards Legolas, who in turn returned it to its pouch for safekeeping. Now sitting straight again, Elrond said, "So you have indeed found Gondor's heir."

"Then you do believe it possible, after all?"

"To do what?"

"Reunite the kingdoms of Men."

"What kingdoms? Nothing survives."

"You cannot know that for certain. We survive still."

Elrond scoffed at this. "Two from many, Legolas. If you wish to unite but two people then I wish you the best of luck, foolish Prince of Mirkwood."

"Do not taunt me," Legolas calmly insisted.

"What did you expect me to say to all this?"

"That we at least have a chance." Legolas shuffled to the edge of his chair and explained his reasoning. "Nothing now stands against the might of Sauron and Mordor, but Aragorn is the hope we need. He can bring hope to the lost; bring them together so that we at least stand a chance. If we can use him to unite those who still possess their sanity and reason and free will then we can at last take a stand against Sauron. Even he must fear the reuniting and rising of Men, especially considering they were nearly his downfall in the First Age."

"Yes. _Nearly_," Elrond stressed almost with anger as he too leaned forward in his chair, one finger pointed at Legolas as he spoke. "You may not recall, Prince of Mirkwood, but I do. That army was indeed victorious in their mission but hundreds of thousands perished. Never could you now summon an army anywhere near as vast as that of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. They would die, every last one of them, in such a foolish endeavour as you propose."

"They are a dying race anyway."

At this, Elrond laughed again, collapsing back in his chair. "Oh, Legolas, how you have changed! From one unwilling to sacrifice any of your soldiers for the greater good to now sending many thousands out to die on what you know to be a mission of futility."

"You do not know that it would be futile," Legolas replied softly, disconcerted by Elrond's words.

More sedately, the dark Elf pondered, "I wonder what your young heir feels of your willingness to shepherd him towards certain death."

This touched a nerve with Legolas and he fell suddenly silent. The truth was that he had not given Aragorn's role in this whole endeavour much detailed thought. All he had known was that the heir of Gondor was a useful tool to bring together those who opposed the regime of evil that now ruled over the earth. That they would have to go into battle at some point and physically fight the forces of Shadow had not even crossed his mind, even though it should have been the most obvious outcome of any attempt at uprising. And Elrond did have a valid point. No matter how large a force of allied Men he could assemble, Sauron would always possess the advantage and that meant danger for all those involved in any rebellion.

How would Aragorn react to that truth? The boy was reluctant enough to face up to what his lineage meant as it was and he did not yet even know of his ancestor Isildur's great mistake. For Aragorn's bloodline, far removed from Isildur though it may have been, was not a strong one.

The lesson was taught to all as children as a cautionary tale about resisting the temptation of great power and the consequences of falling for the rewards offered by the Shadow.

The line of Isildur had been a powerful but inwardly deeply flawed one. Descended from the ancient and Valar-blessed Dunedain, he was the son of Elendil, King of the Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor. After ruling with strength and wisdom for many years over Gondor, Isildur had followed his brother, father and the High King of the Elves Gil-Galad into the war against the forces of Sauron in Mordor, in defence of his own land and all the free lands of Middle Earth.

The joined armies, collectively named 'The Last Alliance of Men and Elves', had fought bravely, none more so than Isildur, alongside the two great leaders of the alliance. When Elendil and Gil-Galad had met the Dark Lord himself on the battlefield though, they had been defeated by the overpowering Darkness. But Isildur had charged against the Enemy and cut the source of his supremacy, the dreaded Ring of Power, from his finger. Sauron was defeated on that day.

But Isildur was not to be considered a hero for long. The Ring, which gave the wearer immense power, was not, as the Wise had advised, destroyed in the volcanic fires of the Mountain of Doom where it had been forged centuries previously, but rather kept by the now King of Men.

With this most powerful weapon now at his command, Isildur had attempted to take it back to his kingdom of Gondor. But his betrayal was to be his ending. He never reached his home. His returning Men had been attacked, Isildur slain and the Ring lost.

Left undestroyed, finding the Ring had become a quest for the forces of Evil and Sauron lived on through it, in spirit if not in body.

Had Isildur possessed the strength to destroy if for good, as advised by Elrond himself, then Sauron would have been truly vanquished and the world would never have fallen to Darkness. The War and the devastation it wrought would never have happened.

And Aragorn was descended from that very same, weak-blooded line. It was not encouraging to Elrond, who had already been betrayed once by the sons of Numenor.

Breaking the silence, the Elven Lord stated, "The boy will die, Legolas, if you send him to this task. His blood is as weak as his ancestors' was."

"You don't know that for certain," Legolas argued in a soft voice, thick with dejection that this conversation was not going the way he had hoped it would. "He is not Isildur. He will succeed where his ancestors failed. He can and will destroy Sauron."

"And just how are you planning to do that? You possess no weapon, Legolas. By now Sauron will have gathered all the Rings of Power to him and you have nothing, not even an army on your side."

"He will unite them."

"Even if you gathered together every free and sane Man still alive on the earth, sufficiently trained and armed them, you would still have little more than an annoyance to the Orc forces surrounding Mordor. Your great army would be butchered before your hero ever got close to Sauron in Barad-Dur." Elrond sat back almost triumphantly in his chair, as if knowing he had won this argument already but he couldn't help adding, "And who would lead them into the Darkness, Legolas? Do you really have the heart to do it yourself?"

Stung by the cruel, scathing words, Legolas nonetheless suggested, "You could help me. You have been to Mordor before, fought against the hordes of Sauron."

Elrond laughed but it was tinged with a deep sadness. "I have even less heart than you, Prince."

"You could _try_. Is it not worth a try?"

Sighing, the dark-haired Elf let his heavy eyelids flutter closed, exhausted already by this conversation.

"We have to fight, Elrond."

Opening his eyes, Elrond looked more defeated than Legolas had ever seen another person look.

"My kingdom is abandoned, my children dead, my heart broken. What have I got left to fight for?" he asked wearily, his raspy voice cracking with emotion.

Despite his deep sympathy for the Elven Lord, Legolas leaned forward and laid his hand on Elrond's knee and whispered eagerly, "For what once was and can be again."

Unmoved, Elrond said, "The old world is gone."

"No. Our world can be free and glorious once again."

"Your optimism astounds me. You cannot honestly believe things can be as they once were."

"I have to believe it."

"That boy cannot deliver you. And to try this ridiculous endeavour is folly."

"No, to do _nothing_ is folly – and cowardly," Legolas accused harshly, sitting back.

Seemingly unconcerned at the blatant slight that Legolas had made against him, Elrond calmly said, "Perhaps I am a coward but at least I am a realist also, Legolas. I will not have my heart further broken. I cannot."

"You said it yourself: we have nothing left, Elrond. Just like you, everything I ever loved is lost. We have nothing else to lose; don't you see that?"

"But nothing at all to gain."

"We have to try," Legolas pressed almost desperately.

"I am finished here, Legolas. I've fought enough for this world and it has all come to nothing."

"While I still have breath in my body I must fight for what I believe in, for this world's salvation. And I do believe it can be saved and be whole once more," Legolas said, knowing already that his words would have little effect on the Elven Lord now. He would get nothing more from the disillusioned Lord Elrond.

"Kill your hope, Legolas, before it kills you," the dark Elf warned ominously. "Leave that child and seek your salvation elsewhere."

Somewhat more bitterly now, Legolas asked, "Where, Elrond? Where does my salvation lie? Where does your fate lead if we do nothing?"

Elrond shrugged nonchalantly. "I have been chained thus far to Rivendell and here I shall stay until my time finally comes to an end." He looked up at the blonde Elf and said dismissively, "Go on your vain quest if you must but you go forth alone. Now leave me be."

With his heart sinking further, Legolas nodded sadly and slowly got to his feet. But before he left the room though, he turned back to the pitiful figure sat small and hunched and useless in his over-sized armchair.

"For all the changes in this world, I always imagined that the strong and dependable Lord of Rivendell would remain constant. I am…disappointed in you."

Elrond glanced over towards Legolas but seemed not to actually look at him when he said emotionlessly, "I care not."

For some reason, these words hurt Legolas more to hear than anything else said during all this time with Elrond. He could not be angry though; he was too saddened to feel anger at seeing the defeated figure he had once looked up to and admired.

"I am truly sorry for your children, Elrond. And I pray that you find peace."

Elrond did not comment at this but looked away so Legolas was no longer in his line of sight and said, "Death will find you, Thranduilion; mark my words."

"Consider them marked – and disregarded; for I have no intention of dying, my Lord Elrond."

Elrond mumbled something incoherent under his breath then fell silent.

Resigned now to the fact that no help could be gained from Elrond and that he could do nothing to help the Elven ruler in his defeat, Legolas turned and left.

The walk back to Erestor's room was a long one for Legolas as he thought through all that he and Elrond had just discussed. It had not been the result he had been hoping for when he came to Rivendell. He was just as alone now as before and the disappointment burned hot in his chest.

Legolas did not realise he had reached his destination until Aragorn's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"How did it go?"

Legolas blinked in surprise that he had been so distracted and stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. Instead of answering the boy's question – and desperate to avoid looking him in the eyes after Elrond's earlier words about the young heir and his destiny – Legolas walked over to the table and poured himself a glass of water, taking his time in the actions.

"Legolas?" Aragorn prompted, coming to stand behind the Elf. "How did it go?" he then repeated as if worried that his mentor hadn't heard him.

"It…" Legolas walked slowly over to the bed and sat down heavily. As Aragorn joined him, Legolas bowed his head in defeat. How could he tell the man that all this had been for nothing, that they were no better off than before, that he had failed him once more?

Aragorn did not need telling though. Legolas' crestfallen demeanour told him everything. "He won't help, will he?" he asked softly, trying and failing to keep the disappointment from his own voice.

"No," Legolas answered, shaking his head sadly, keeping his stinging eyes on the glass resting on his knee.

Feeling the disappointment radiating off his guardian, Aragorn leaned into Legolas, pressing his forehead against the Elf's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered sincerely into the prince's sleeve.

Legolas swallowed thickly to dislodge the lump in his throat then took a deep, steadying breath. He smiled softly as he reached up to lay the palm of his hand on top of the boy's head. "It doesn't matter," he said shakily. "It'll be just you and me."

"Like always," Aragorn said quietly, hoping it sounded mildly encouraging.

Despite Elrond's stinging words still reverberating around his head, Legolas smiled slightly and nodded, cheered by the boy's optimism. "Yes, just like always," he agreed.

"Excuse me," Erestor's voice came from the doorway. "Am I interrupting?"

"No," Legolas said as Aragorn sat up straight, not looking at the dark-haired Elf; for some reason blaming the advisor for Elrond's lack of help. "Actually, I wanted to speak with you too."

"You do?" Aragorn asked in surprise as Legolas pushed himself to his feet with effort. "What can he do?"

"Aragorn," Legolas warned lightly then laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Stay here, I'll be back soon."

Although Aragorn wanted to tell his mentor to stay, to leave this place of disappointment and get back to be just the two of them travelling the lands, he found that he couldn't. That was how he liked things. Even when he was cold at wet at least he could trust in everything around him. He didn't have to fear Legolas like he feared Elrond and Erestor.

But it appeared that Legolas still believed that there was something to be gained from Rivendell. And Aragorn would not leave his mentor behind.

**OIOI**

At Legolas' request, he and Erestor walked for a time around the house while the prince gathered together his scattered thoughts. At his side, the advisor walked silently, hands clasped behind his back, paying his young guest as little attention as he himself was paid. Whilst he was curious as to what the reasoning was behind Legolas' coming here, he understood the need to be sure of what had to be said and respected the quiet the prince felt he needed. Legolas had rarely been impulsive by nature and it seemed that that was one thing that had not changed over his decades of exile.

The paths they took through the grounds of Rivendell were all but invisible now, not having been used for so many long years. Elrond's once magnificent gardens, no longer being a priority to Lord of Major Domo, had been left to become wild and overgrown, any flowers completely swamped by the weeds that thrived in the poor light and soil quality. Had Legolas been paying any attention to any of his surroundings then perhaps he would have been saddened at the state of the place he had once loved so much but as it was he was too deep in thought to even notice. Besides, he'd seen so much death throughout the lands that it barely touched his mind anymore.

Only when they reached a similarly overgrown small garden, secluded from all the others, at the back of the great house did Legolas come to a halt. The garden was scattered with stone statues, ethereal and beautiful despite being changed by the elements from their natural brilliant white colour to a dirty mess of brown and green. These were memorials to those lost. Few represented the Elves fallen in this latest war – there was no time in these dark days to commission such sentimental pieces. But for Legolas, they reminded him of those he had lost.

Quietly, he stepped closer to the nearest one – a small woman, veiled and knelt in prayer amongst the weeds. Crouching down, Legolas laid his palm against the cold stone and closed his eyes.

No memorial marked the passing of those innocents who had been slaughtered here in Rivendell after the Orc invasion and, similarly, no statue commemorated the fallen of Mirkwood either. They were, for all intents and purposes, forgotten by the world. Even the king himself went unrecognised in the wake of the battle. It was as if they had never even lived.

Still on his feet behind Legolas, Erestor said quietly through the hush, "He has never forgiven himself for sending his children into battle."

Legolas opened his eyes slowly. This memorial was not anyone he knew or even recognised and yet he knew now whom Erestor spoke of – the ones who had broken his lord's heart; the children of Elrond, perished alongside their comrades in the final battle for Rivendell.

"Why does he stay here?" Legolas asked after a moment, glancing over his shoulder at the major domo.

"Where else could he go? He is bound forever to this place now, even in its winter Elrond is Rivendell's Lord."

"Did he never think of sailing?"

"Not once. I don't think it even crossed his mind when the battle raged around these lands. And afterwards…well, by then it was all too late."

"Foolish - not to take the chance when he could," Legolas muttered almost angrily, looking back to the sad statue.

"You didn't," Erestor pointed out.

"I was a soldier. I had a duty to defend my people and my home – even if it was a hopeless cause."

"As did my Lord. He fought for Rivendell just as you fought for Mirkwood."

Suddenly, Legolas stood upright, anger flushing his features. "A lot of good it did both of us. My people were slaughtered and Rivendell was left to ruin."

"You're angry."

"Aren't you? How can you be so ambivalent about all this?"

"I am not ambivalent, Legolas. I loved this world just like you. To see it under the permanent thrall of the Shadow breaks my heart," Erestor answered calmly, laying his delicate hand against Legolas' shoulder, wondering what he had said that had made the young blonde so very angry all of a sudden.

Legolas, however, shrugged him off bitterly and demanded, "And what are you doing to help? You walk around like a ghost, maintaining what remains of a ruined, breached sanctuary, no longer any good for anything. Why didn't you go into battle along with your fellows, Erestor? Why didn't you die amongst your people?"

"I am duty-bound to serve my lord."

"A lot of good it is doing! Your realm is but a dim memory of what it used to be and your lord is nothing but a bitter and empty shell!"

"What more would you have me do? Legolas, you have offered me no insight into your reasoning for coming here nor have you said why you insist on travelling with a Human child you protect so fiercely. What were you expecting when you came here?" At this, Legolas remained silent, feeling very much like a child being scolded even though Erestor's voice never rose to a shout. "My old friend, what did Elrond say to you?"

Suddenly deflating, Legolas sighed and shook his head in defeat. He knew that he had a duty to tell Erestor everything he had told Elrond and yet after the Elven lord's words, he feared what the wise advisor would have to say on the subject. He wasn't sure he could take much more disappointment from this place he had once loved so much.

Five minutes later, however, he had bravely exorcised this fear from himself by repeating all he had told Elrond about Aragorn and his plans.

By the time he had finished what he had to say, Erestor was pacing the small memorial garden thoughtfully. After a moment, he asked, "And how did Lord Elrond take this?"

"As expected, I suppose. He wanted nothing to do with it then told me I was walking into certain death if I stayed on this path," Legolas sighed in answer as he watched the advisor.

Erestor also sighed. "I suppose that was a fairly predictable response. For all his tolerance of the Human race, my lord's faith has been severely shaken by past faults."

"And you?"

"I have never had any faith in them," the advisor told him bluntly.

Chuckling softly but without humour, Legolas nodded. "Glad to hear it."

"However, under the rather extreme circumstances we find ourselves in these days, we must make the most of what we have."

"So you think it could work then?"

"I honestly don't know, Legolas."

"You are not very good at assurances, old friend."

Erestor turned grey eyes to the blonde Elf in front of him and chuckled at the serious expression on Legolas' face. "Perhaps not. But, if this is your decision, if you truly believe that this child can do all you think he can then I will support you in any way I can."

"Even if it goes against the word of your lord?"

Looking down at the damp grass at his feet, Erestor breathed a deep sigh, appearing to get lost in his melancholy for a long moment before he dared to meet Legolas' eyes again. "I think we can both agree, Your Highness, that my lord Elrond is not what he used to be." It was said quietly and with a kind of deep regret and sadness that Legolas suddenly felt deeply sorry for the obviously lonely advisor. "In lieu of my lord, I will help you in any way that I can."

The raven-haired Elf bowed low to the prince as he offered him his service.

Legolas abruptly strode over to the advisor, taking his arm and pulling him up from the bow. "Please don't do that," Legolas told him quietly.

Although Erestor obediently remained upright as Legolas moved away from him, he asked, "Why do you despise that so?"

"Despise what?" the blonde Elf asked distractedly as he looked around the garden at the eerie statues to the dead.

"Your title, the old ways of etiquette. You do not like it."

Legolas scoffed softly. "I am not a prince any longer, Erestor." He turned to face the dark Elf who was frowning in confusion. Explaining, Legolas continued, "Just as you are no longer advisor to Lord Elrond or major domo of Imladris."

"I still consider myself both those things."

"A house-keeper with no house to keep and an advisor whose advice falls on deaf ears," Legolas pointed out. "I am no prince as there is no kingdom left for me to serve. Why cling onto a painful past when there is suffering enough in the present?"

Quietly, Erestor said in a painful, trembling voice, "Because the past is all I have left."

For a long moment, silence reigned in the small memorial garden then Legolas stepped over to where his old friend was staring with forlorn eyes up at his abandoned home and laid his hand on his shoulder.

"That is why we have to try to change it," Legolas told him softly.

Under his hand, Legolas felt Erestor chuckle mirthlessly. "It will not bring your father back, Legolas."

The familiar stab of pain cut through Legolas' heart but he nodded all the same. "I know that," he answered in a whisper.

"Nothing ever will."

"I know. But perhaps I can make amends for the past. Maybe Lord Elrond is right that this is a foolhardy task," Legolas continued, squeezing Erestor's shoulder, "but, like you, I must cling to something."

"And you believe in this boy?"

"I really do."

Erestor nodded and straightened up, pulling himself together. "Then, Your Highness, I will do all I can to help you."

"Thank you, my friend," Legolas smiled, dropping his hand from the major domo's shoulder. "I should return to Aragorn now."

"Yes, of course."

Together, they left the quiet graveyard for there was much to do.

**To Be Continued…**


	23. Flame Of The West

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed. Much appreciated. I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 23 – Flame of the West**

A full month had passed since Elf and Man had entered the Elven realm of Rivendell and Aragorn was by then well and truly fed up with the wretched place. Whilst Legolas seemed more at home and more relaxed than Aragorn had ever seen him, Aragorn found the enormous, boarded-up house increasingly disturbing.

Lothlorien had seemed almost homely to him, even in its devastated, deserted state, but he could find no peace in Rivendell. Its empty ornately decorated halls had lost their charm for him after a few days and now were just bleak and lonely. The whole place seemed like a tomb and the living were the intruders in this sanctuary of the dead. It sent chills through Aragorn whenever he had to traverse the corridors on his own. When he'd mentioned this supernatural feeling of being surrounded by the echoes of the past lives of Elves to Legolas he had laughed and told the boy that there was nothing to fear from the spectres of those who had at one time inhabited Imladris. They were beyond caring for the living.

That continued feeling of having the past peering over his shoulder made Aragorn endlessly uneasy. It was not helped by the peculiar looks Erestor shot his way every time they came into contact. The dark-haired Elf no longer attempted to spark conversation with him although he spent enough time whispering in the strange foreign language to Legolas. When they thought Aragorn slept, the two Elves would huddle together around a lit candle and speak in hushed voices for most of the night. It frustrated Aragorn to no end that he didn't know what the two of them were up to. Whenever he asked Legolas about it, he would always cleverly deflect the boy's concerns, dismissing the discussions as merely catching up on old times or planning for their departure from the realm of Imladris.

In fact, the only good thing that Aragorn found in Rivendell was watching how it utterly changed his guardian. Not only did the Elf seem lighter of heart but he had changed so much in appearance that it amazed Aragorn. Had he met Legolas on the road now, he would have found him unrecognisable.

Although they had only been there for one month, Rivendell's generous host had plied them with reasonable portions of food and drink and they were flourishing under the nourishment and care. The haunted look that had always clouded Legolas' eyes had lifted somewhat so that the brilliant blue eyes positively sparkled with renewed life and something close to vigour. In fresh clothes, he seemed more comfortable and his washed and groomed hair shone golden, lying over his shoulders soft and beautiful having been taken care of for the first time in years. With proper food and a chance for some much needed sleep he looked in Aragorn's mind to be less emaciated and less tired, the dark circles that had previously shadowed eyes fading. Aragorn imagined that this was what Legolas had been like before the War.

It was an odd thing to witness but Aragorn supposed that under the same care and attention Legolas saw the same thing happening to him. He couldn't help but wonder how long it would last once they left Rivendell and that was perhaps the reason Legolas seemed so reluctant to leave.

One night, as they sat side by side in the room they now lived in, Aragorn asked his mentor, "When are we leaving? Have you decided yet?"

"Soon," Legolas replied cryptically, apparently unconcerned with the inaccuracy of the answer.

"How soon?"

"As soon as we can."

"What exactly are we waiting for?"

Legolas sighed and sat forward before saying, "Lord Elrond could not help us but I think there's a chance that Erestor may be able to."

"How?" the boy asked curiously.

"We're not entirely sure yet."

"Of course you're not," Aragorn mumbled sarcastically.

He was so convinced that Legolas was simply stalling to put off their departure that when a week after that the blonde Elf came to him and told him that they could leave within the next few days, he was more than a little surprised.

"There is one further thing we have to before we can leave though," Legolas told the boy as he led him through Rivendell's maze of open corridors the day after his surprising declaration. "Or rather, something we must help with before we go."

"What?" Aragorn asked, having to almost jog to keep up with the prince's quick pace.

"Through here." Legolas opened a heavy door then ushered Aragorn into an enormous hall he'd never seen before.

Grey slate covered the floor and Aragorn's footfalls echoed loudly as he stepped inside. The impressively high ceiling was covered with paintings but in the dull light of the misty afternoon Aragorn could pick out only a few details. The alcoves in the walls were also decorated with countless paintings, all faded from time and lack of attention, but every one of them beautiful nonetheless. Legolas paid none of these any heed as he strode purposefully down the centre of the massive hall.

Aragorn was so involved with the enigmatic paintings of people and things he knew nothing about that he bumped right into Legolas when the Elf stopped and he failed to.

Legolas ignored it though, steadying his ward with one hand and pointed to one particular painting, darker than all the others, hidden away in a shadowed alcove. "Take a look," he told his Human charge.

"What is it?" the boy asked quietly as he inched closer.

"That is your ancestor."

Aragorn looked up at the blonde Elf sharply, surprised. Slowly, he turned his eyes back to the painting, taking the time to examine it more closely. Clad in heavy black armour and dominating almost the entire picture stood a towering, intimidating creature the mere look of which made Aragorn shudder deeply. Holding an enormous mace high above its head, it was clearly poised to strike at the much smaller Human cowered at its feet.

After giving Aragorn a moment to absorb the contents of the picture, Legolas then laid his hand on the man's shoulder, using his other free hand to point at the cowering man, who was reaching for a broken sword on the ground next to where he knelt.

"That," the Elf began to explain, "is Isildur, King of Gondor and Arnor and your ancestor."

"My great-grandfather?"

"Add a few more 'greats' and you'll be getting closer," Legolas smiled softly. "And next to him is _his_ father, the High King Elendil."

Aragorn's eyes automatically drifted back to the dominant, metal-clad monster bearing down on his forefathers. "And the other?" he asked, swallowing the thick lump of fear that had become lodged in his throat at the answer he feared was coming.

"That is Sauron the Deceiver," Legolas told him matter-of-factly although he privately shuddered at having to speak the name. "The one who now holds sway over these lands."

"Did they die? Did he kill them?"

"Elendil, yes. But Isildur lived. He survived the early battles and fought to the end and it was he who brought Sauron down in the end."

"Erestor told me about the war. He, Isildur, took something from Sauron."

"Yes, that is right. But he was killed for his mistake. He never made it back to his home and Gondor saw no King in the wake of his death."

"So my ancestors were heroes then?" Aragorn asked hopefully.

Legolas smiled sadly and answered, "Not exactly, I'm afraid. Although Isildur fought bravely, he was also foolish. His desire for power not only led to his own downfall but also ultimately brought this world and its people to its knees. He was known as the weak one who exiled his people and destroyed not only his kingdom but also his bloodline."

"Am I am his kin," Aragorn murmured, feeling his heart sink.

"You do indeed share his blood but not his heart." Legolas' hand tightened on the dismayed man's shoulder in encouragement. "This is Isildur's sword; your family heirloom," the Elf continued pointing to the broken blade in the bottom part of the picture. "Very nearly this was the salvation of the world." He then guided Aragorn towards a tall, white marble statue at the far end of the hall.

Once it would have been splendidly beautiful. Carved from flawless white stone, it stood ten feet tall, head bowed in reverence to the obviously sacred object held on a pillow on its outstretched hands.

"The sword of Elendil," Legolas told Aragorn as the boy stood on tiptoe to get a better look at the object important enough to place by the Elves in such a reverential manner. "The blade of your ancestors."

"It's broken," Aragorn pointed out, somewhat disappointed by the seemingly useless shards.

Legolas nodded and explained, "Shattered by Sauron himself." Carefully and with great veneration, he picked up the largest fragment of the sword, still bearing the plain hilt and handle and held it out for Aragorn to take.

The boy hesitated in wrapping his fingers around the leather-bound handle. That piece of metal held so much history and was so closely connected with him that he felt a deep respect for it. However, he eventually took the piece of sword from his Elven guardian, running his eyes along the fragment of sharp blade. It felt heavy in his hands despite the light metal it had been forged from years ago.

"It was called 'Narsil', wielded by the kings of old. And now it is yours," Legolas told him solemnly.

Not particularly liking the thought of that, Aragorn carefully returned the blade to Legolas' far more confident grasp and reiterated, "But it's broken – useless."

"Yes." The prince returned the blade to its resting place. "But it is not past repairing. We can re-forge it."

"Re-forge it? You mean make a new sword?"

"Erestor is heating the furnaces as we speak."

"I have a sword already. What good would a different one do me?"

"It'll help," Legolas said softly but with absolute certainty.

"How?"

"It just will. Now help me with these." Legolas pulled from his pocket a square of thick fabric and laid it over his hands as protection then waited for Aragorn to place the broken sword on the cloth.

Legolas then walked in respectful silence through the halls with Aragorn trailing behind him feeling somewhat overwhelmed by his guardian's solution to their problem. He couldn't see how a sword would change their fortunes at all despite Legolas' unwavering confidence. A sword was a sword – nothing but a cold, emotionless piece of metal – in Aragorn's opinion.

They went outside into the cold then and Legolas led his charge to the forges, which glowed red with the lit fires. Inside, Erestor stood waiting for them.

The next few hours were a blur of intense heat and the odd and deeply disconcerting feeling that he was being completely smothered in Elven magic, so potent that at times he felt like he could barely breathe or stand it any longer. By the time the task had been completed and Legolas led his young charge out into the cold air again, Aragorn's head was spinning, his body pathetically weary. Really it was a good job that Legolas had taken his arm and led him back to Erestor's room as Aragorn was certain that he would have gotten lost left on his own with his brain so muddled.

He tried to ask of Legolas why he felt so strange but the Elf merely made him sit quietly on the bed then drink some water to refresh him.

In a daze, Aragorn let himself be guided to lie down on the mattress and felt his eyes growing heavy as Legolas removed his boots for him. As he started to drift off, Legolas' cool hand was laid against his forehead, which felt feverish although there was absolutely no reason he should be sickening.

"Sleep," Legolas' voice commanded. "You will feel better when you next wake."

Aragorn felt Legolas pull back then the soft sheets were pulled up over him. "Thank you," he mumbled wearily before he at last slipped into a deep sleep bound to be filled with peculiar dreams.

"Is he alright?" Erestor's kind voice asked when Legolas had quietly closed the door behind him after tucking his young charge in for the night.

"Oh," Legolas sighed, leaning back heavily against the door and passing his hand over his eyes. "He'll be better when he wakes, I think."

"I did not imagine a Human would be touched by the magic of the ancients quite so deeply," Erestor mused. "But he is tied now to the sword – it will hold remarkable power when wielded in his hands. The Dark Lord himself would certainly not have forgotten the Sword of Elendil."

"Let us hope."

For a moment, Erestor simply observed the downtrodden Mirkwood Elf. "Come, my prince," he finally said, stepping forward to gently take Legolas' arm. "It seems the magic has drained you as well."

"No. I am well, Erestor," Legolas assured even as he allowed himself to be passively led away.

"The boy will no doubt sleep until the morning." Erestor took the younger Elf into another room nearby and sat him down in a chair, worried that Legolas looked very much like he might topple over at any moment. "And you must rest, my friend."

Legolas made no protest as he idly watched Erestor moving about the room, lighting the candles. The only movement he made was to bring his weak hand up to massage his aching forehead. "I cannot fail him, Erestor," Legolas said softly after a while, rubbing his eyes.

"You will not. Of this I am certain."

"How? How can you be certain?" Legolas demanded, looking up at Erestor for the first time since the forges. "What chance does the boy really stand against the Shadow? One child alone against all the armies of Sauron, the many evils of Mordor – the odds are almost impossible."

"But he does not stand alone. He has you."

Legolas scoffed bitterly at this, his eyes moving away from the older advisor. "And what am I really, Erestor? A cowardly prince with no kingdom, a pitiful warrior and a poor excuse for a guardian."

Erestor sat down elegantly on the edge of a table covered in a dust-covered white sheet and shook his head in disappointment. "You, Legolas Thranduilion, are no coward." Legolas glanced his way only briefly to show his disagreement with this statement then averted his eyes again. Then Erestor moved suddenly to crouch before the young prince, placing his hands on Legolas' knees and demanding, "Look at me!" Reluctantly, tired blue eyes, shrouded by inner darkness, came up to meet the persistent advisor. "You are _not_ a coward," he reiterated. "And Aragorn is immensely lucky to have you at his side. He believes in you, Legolas, and above all else he trusts your judgement. You only have to spend a few minutes in his presence to know that."

"Then perhaps he is a fool too."

"I don't believe that to be true and neither do you."

Legolas shook his head and tried to blink back the stinging in his eyes. His next words bubbled forth without any real thought. "Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning, Erestor. I have failed everyone else I ever loved. It terrifies me that I may fail him too." He quickly pressed his hand over his mouth to prevent any further fractured confessions from escaping his lips then ran his fingers shakily over his damp eyes. "Forgive me, my friend. I am wearier than I believed."

Sighing deeply, Erestor had to agree, "We are all weary." He rocked back on his heels, his gaze momentarily drifting.

The following silence was deep and long but neither was in a hurry to break it for it was by no means unpleasant and the alternative was worse – speaking of the past that had made both feel so terribly dejected with their lives now. Both of them became lost in thought, however, which proved not quite so pleasant.

It was Legolas who finally shattered the quiet. Softly, he started, "Elrond told me that this quest would be my death."

"I do not believe that."

Legolas smiled gently. "Yes, you do. Only a fool would think otherwise." The ensuing silence confirmed his suspicions and a smile flitted across his face. "But I will not fail Aragorn now; even if my death does prove inevitable." He shrugged nonchalantly then. "You never know, perhaps Mandos' Halls would be an improvement on this."

"Do not say such things," Erestor whispered fiercely at the disconcerting suggestion, for the Halls of Mandos, the waiting halls for those unlucky Elves who perished on Middle Earth never to be granted access to the paradise awaiting in the Undying Lands was feared by the Firstborn above all else. A dark, eternal chasm with no sun or starlight to soothe the fragile Elven soul; to wish to go there was indeed a terrifying thought.

The prince smiled again and leaned forward in his chair to lay his hand on Erestor's shoulder. "Thank you for all you have done for me, my old friend. I appreciate it beyond all words."

Erestor took Legolas' thin hand and squeezed it tightly. "I only wish I could do more."

"You have done more than enough already. Tomorrow morning, however, we must take our leave of your home."

"So soon?" Erestor was surprised; even though he had been expecting Legolas and Aragorn to leave him soon enough, it didn't mean he at all looked forward to the prince's imminent departure. It was only since the arrival of the two travellers that the advisor realised how dreadfully lonely it had been with only the disillusioned Elrond as company and he did not relish the return to such a solitary life in the fading Imladris. "Could you not stay longer?" he asked, hoping that he had hidden his longing sufficiently.

"We have lingered here too long already. Aragorn grows increasingly restless."

"But where will you go?"

"To search out potential allies. Elrond once spoke of those Men still loyal to the true throne of Gondor - the Rangers of the North. The final reports your scouts filed tell of their presence in Eriador. We will go there first and hope they remain the guardians of that land even through the War."

"And if they are no longer there?"

Legolas smiled thinly and confessed, "I have not thought that far ahead. But we must start somewhere and with nothing else to go on…"

"I understand," Erestor said, although sadly. "I will prepare you some food to take with you and find you some weapons."

"We will need all the help we can get."

"Then help I shall," Erestor declared decisively, standing up. "But tonight you must rest if you insist upon leaving in the morning. You will need all your strength for the task ahead."

"There is much to do before morning," Legolas protested, although embarrassingly it was spoken around a yawn and his cheeks flushed.

"I will see to it that you have all you need. Rest now, my friend."

Although the younger Elf wanted to protest again, his eyelids were growing impossibly heavy and before long he had fallen sound asleep in the dusty old armchair Erestor had placed him in.

For what seemed the longest time, Erestor was contented to simply watch the deep, steady breathing, the beautiful, peaceful face of the prince of Mirkwood. Even in the semi-darkness of the room and marred as he was by decades of unrelenting sadness and suffering, Legolas remained pure and undiminished by Shadow in Erestor's eyes. The innocent, bright soul beloved so by the people of Mirkwood and Imladris remained relatively unscarred by the darkness it had endured. Legolas had suffered, Erestor knew, and his purity, his desire to always look on the bright side of everything had been severely shaken, tested to the maximum, but in spite of all the horrors he had been made to suffer he had come out the other side of the War with some semblance of hope intact. The golden prince of the Woodland Realm lived on and still brought hope to others.

How Erestor wished he could feel the same way. Despite his relatively comfortable life in Rivendell, he found that his heart was lonely. He wanted to feel hope again and he was certain that Elrond was entirely incapable of providing it.

**OIOI**

"There is no way I can convince you to stay longer?" the dark-haired major domo asked with a weak but hopeful smile as he handed the last of the packs filled with all the supplies he could spare over to Legolas.

Smiling thinly back at him, the prince of Mirkwood said, "We have stayed too long already."

Erestor nodded sadly, struggling to keep the strained, trembling smile fixed upon his lips. He had known that that would be the prince's answer and yet he still felt his heart sink further in his chest.

Legolas could easily sense his friend's disappointment at their departure – indeed, he shared it. Imladris had always felt like a second home to him. It hurt to leave it behind now after he had unexpectedly found some kind of peace here again. But he had to go now. For Aragorn. The boy was restless and would not wish to linger even a day longer.

"You could come with us, you know," Legolas said hopefully although he feared he already knew the answer to the plea.

Sighing deeply, Erestor cast his eyes downwards and shook his head with regret. "I am bound, as I have always been, to my land and its master." In a quieter, less formal voice, though he added, "I cannot abandon him, Legolas. Elrond needs me. He has no one else left."

"I understand." He was sympathetic to Erestor's plight as he could sense that the older Elf wanted to follow him but also felt duty-bound to remain in his homeland, a feeling which Legolas understood all too well. He wanted to help Elrond as well, wanted to pull his past mentor and friend from this despair he wallowed relentlessly in. And yet, unlike Erestor, Legolas knew that his place was not in Rivendell. It was with Aragorn – as it had been ever since that fateful day on the Old Forest Road. His fate had been sealed that day. Never though had he predicted it would separate him so entirely from his kin and their welfare. Still, he had chosen his path now. He could not renege. Surely, that would do nothing to convince anyone – including himself – that he was not the coward he had labelled himself to be in Mirkwood's last hours.

Knowing fully well that Legolas wished things could be different now and that he felt reluctance at leaving Imladris, Erestor drew himself up to his full height and returned to his more formal way of address. He held out the recently re-forged Narsil, now renamed Anduril and sheathed in an intricately decorated scabbard, for the prince and took on the more familiar role of official spokesman for his realm.

"Go forward with the blessings of the whole Elven race, such as it now is, and rid our world of this terror once and for all, Prince of Mirkwood."

"Thank you for everything, my friend," Legolas said, stepping forward to embrace Erestor.

"Good luck, Legolas. I pray we meet again."

"As do I. Be safe until we return," the prince smiled as he pulled away.

Erestor looked then to Aragorn, who had been hanging back to give the two Elves time to say their farewells to one another. He looked startled to now found Erestor's attention upon him. The Elf shook his head in amusement then pulled him close into a hug.

Into the young boy's ear, Erestor whispered so Legolas couldn't hear, "Look after him, Aragorn. He needs you as much as you need him."

Although confused by this odd statement, Aragorn nodded then Erestor patted his back and pulled away, ignoring the questioning expression upon Legolas' face.

"Come, we should get going now, make the most of the daylight while we have it," Legolas prompted his Human charge, laying his hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "Goodbye, Erestor."

With that final, determined farewell, the unlikely pair turned from the house and began the long walk out of the devastated yet surprisingly comforting land of the unfortunate Rivendell Elves.

The rest of the day passed mostly in thick silence. Legolas walked ahead of the man but his pace was not as hurried as it had been when they had made their way into the Elven realm a month ago and Aragorn could feel his guardian's prevailing sadness at having to leave Rivendell radiating off him despite him never commenting upon it.

A part of him wanted to lead Legolas back to where he so clearly found peace but the strongest part of him found it incredibly freeing and satisfying to be back on the road again, even though their intended destination, as laid out before him by Legolas that morning, still troubled him. However, his step was lighter leaving Rivendell than when they had crept into the massive, dilapidated House of Elrond and he felt considerably refreshed after his weeks of rest and good food. That, at least, he would most definitely miss.

Feeling stronger as they did, the pair walked all through the night and well into the next day before they finally paused to rest.

As he watched, crouched opposite his guardian, as Legolas lit a fire, Aragorn asked him cautiously, "Are you alright?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" Legolas answered distractedly, not looking up from what he was doing.

"You've been quiet."

"Sorry."

"I wasn't complaining. I just…I'm sorry we had to leave Rivendell. I know you liked it there."

"Well, we had to go at some time."

Aragorn nodded but said after a while, "If it weren't for me, would you have stayed?"

Throwing a twig into the newly created flames, Legolas glanced up at his charge then snapped irritably, "Don't be so self-pitying, Aragorn! What is, is. There is no way we can change it and neither your guilt nor your misguided sympathy are welcomed."

As the Elf got to his feet, Aragorn sulked, "I was only asking."

Without bothering to answer this time, Legolas abruptly wandered off, muttering something about collecting firewood under his breath.

Now left by himself, Aragorn glared moodily into the small fire. He was not worried about Legolas; he knew the Elf would return to him eventually, although he did not look forward to his return whilst his mood remained so dark.

**To Be Continued…**


	24. Touch Of The Shadow

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**Happy New Year Readers!**

**Here's a brand new chapter for you. Enjoy and leave a review if you please.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 24 – Touch of the Shadow**

**Rivendell… 6 Months Later…**

Erestor raced desperately through the corridors, not slowed at all by the fact that it was so dark that he could hardly see a foot in front of him. There were more dangerous things than the dark in Rivendell this night. One hand rested on the handle of his sword, ready to draw at a moment's notice if needed. He sped blindly past the empty rooms and threw himself around the corner, frantically trying to reach his lord Elrond before any other.

But he was already too late. He should have known he would be.

In the hallway, heavy bodies barring the way completely, stood three massive Uruk-hai blocking his path to his lord's rooms.

One of the huge creatures snarled at him as he screeched to a stumbling halt and fumbled to draw his sword from the sheath on his belt, clumsy in his haste and panic. The creature called then to another and from around the corner came an Orc dragging behind it the Lord of Imladris, stumbling due to an obviously hideously broken leg.

"No," Erestor breathed, staring in horror as Elrond was dumped carelessly on the hard stone floor before the three Uruks. "Please, no."

The creatures all laughed and one of them bellowed tauntingly, "See how it begs!"

"Enough," another one of the Uruk-hai snapped then, before calmly bending forward, laying its lethal blade at the helpless Elrond's neck.

"Erestor, my friend, help me," Elrond whispered in terror, noting through the haze of his grief that his life was in danger.

Excruciatingly, this was the most alive Erestor had seen his lord since the Lady Arwen's departure. Now that he was sure to die, he was prompted into life, not wanting to lose the on-going battle he had endured all these long years with the cruel world.

But what had become of his proud lord and master? Even now in his moment of clarity, Elrond was not as Erestor remembered or wished. Sat begging at the feet of the Enemy, it was a pitiful sight indeed and it nearly reduced Erestor for tears, because he knew already that the begging was in vain. Elrond had been dead the moment the Uruk-hai invaded Rivendell but minutes before.

"Please don't," Erestor pleaded to the Uruk-hai in what he knew was a futile attempt at begging for his lord's life. He knew he could never hope to kill them all – already in the distance he could hear the pounding of heavy feet heading through the house towards them. In a matter of moments he would be completely surrounded. Escape was impossible. He was being forced to submit or die.

Ignoring the plea of the lone advisor who posed no threat whatsoever to its plan, the Uruk commander smiled coldly then slashed its blade straight across Elrond's exposed neck, resulting in a sickening combination of pouring blood and pathetic gurgling from the slain Elven ruler.

In utter horror, Erestor went to dash forward but he knew that already it was too late for Elrond; his master, his friend, was beyond all aid now.

Brown eyes, still fully alert for the first time since the terrible tragedy had befallen his realm and stolen his family from him, looked up to the horrified advisor who had taken such good care of him for so many years during his infirmity with deep regret but surprisingly little fear.

Life drained quickly from him but Elrond just about had time to be grateful for and to welcome the end.

Erestor did not, however, welcome the ending of his lord's life, and long after the last remnant of life had drained from the protector of Rivendell, he pleaded over and over again in broken Elvish for Elrond not to leave him all alone at the cruel mercy of the Shadow.

He dropped to his knees, sword clattering to the floor and crawled towards the lifeless body of his fallen friend. The Uruk-hai paid him no heed. He was not a threat to them and there was no hurry for them now. Rivendell finally did truly belong to the realm of the Shadow. The last ring-bearer had fallen and Imladris, last Haven of the Light, had succumbed to the might of the Shadow.

Cradling Elrond's blood-coated body in his arms, sword laying useless and forgotten at the armoured feet of the thoroughly amused Uruk-hai, Erestor knew nothing but the agony of his loss. His beloved lord whom he had devoutly protected and looked after was at last lost to him, taken by Sauron's servants just as everyone else in the Elven realm had been years ago. He was all alone now.

The Elf's grief was to be short-lived, however.

Their amusement sated, the leader of the Uruk-hai grabbed Erestor by the upper arm, having to drag the limp, bloodied body of Elrond from his arms when he refused to surrender his lord willingly, and dragged him through the dark corridors, heedless of his futile struggles, to where the other creatures of Evil had gathered, swarming around the long-abandoned Halls of Fire at the very heart of Rivendell's house.

Fear built in his mind as he was thrown to the floor in the midst of the baying servants of Shadow. The Orcs and Uruks laughed as they surrounded him, tormented him. It had been many years since they had been rewarded with an Elven prisoner and they were fascinated by him and immensely looking forward to toying with the fragile Elven soul, driven into a near frenzy by the scent of Elf blood.

Through the noise came a soft, rasping voice, which, despite its apparent lack of power, instantly silenced the blood-thirsty creatures, making them draw back. "That will do now." Immediately, the beasts ceased kicking the now badly beaten Elf and backed away, forming a circle around the pitiful creature, restrained only by their fear it seemed.

Erestor struggled up to his knees, having to brace himself with his hands on the blood spattered wooden floor so that he didn't fall flat on his face again, and spat out more blood. Through the silenced creatures, an impossibly dark, robed figure emerged. A chill shuddered through the Elf and he heard the Orcs openly chuckling at his reaction although he could feel their unrest too at this new presence.

At first, Erestor thought it to be a Ringwraith, one of the damned Men enslaved to the Dark Lord, such was its obvious, immense power. But when it at last spoke to him in a clear, concise tone, he changed his mind. This was no wraith. This was something new that he knew nothing of. That scared him more.

Coming to a halt in front of the cowering Elf, the tall being hissed, "Tell me what I want to know, Erestor of Imladris, and I will make your passing quick and painless." Erestor trembled at the words but made no response in spite of the evil positively seeping into him from this creature of darkness. Unfazed by his lack of answer, the being calmly crouched before him, waiting, and, with great reluctance, the advisor raised his eyes to the face partially obscured by a thick helmet at the silent summons, and in its face he cowered in fear. Dead, dark eyes stared back at him in vague amusement and a smile revealing sharply pointed teeth split its pale, wrinkled face. Erestor cried out but found that he could not look away from the face such was his terror.

From beneath a thick black robe, the being radiated pure evil and Erestor knew that this was no lowly slave of Sauron. This creature of darkness held high rank in the lands of Mordor and was feared for its talents and position.

"I am the Messenger of Sauron, ruler and master of Middle Earth, and you will tell me: where is the Human child?"

Erestor frowned in spite of himself, knowing now that the conduit of Evil meant to find Aragorn. However, he forced himself to sit up straighter in defiance, ignoring the pain the action caused to flood through him, and braced himself for what was to come.

"What boy?" he asked with feigned innocence.

The creature quirked a terrible smile at him then stood to its full, impressive height. It turned back to the gathered Orcs who stared hungrily at the prone Elf on the floor.

"Gain the truth," the Messenger of Sauron commanded simply before calmly turning and walking – or was it floating across the floor, Erestor wondered – away.

Closing his eyes, no longer bothering to disguise his fear, for not to fear would have been impossible and the creatures surrounding him knew that, Erestor muttered through tears, "Valar give me strength."

The Messenger of Sauron turned then with the same wicked smile upon its face and returned smoothly to Erestor. In the fluid, practiced language of the Elves, although it sounded so very wrong coming from the Mouth of Evil, it said tauntingly, "Your beloved Creators have not helped you thus far, Erestor of Imladris." It bent close to Erestor's ear and whispered, "You are all alone. They have abandoned you." Taking a step back, the creature said, "Nothing can save you now but the Master of Shadow. If you comply, he will be merciful."

Gritting his teeth, Erestor glared as best he could up to the tall creature in disgust. "Never will I serve the Darkness. I would sooner die."

The Messenger nodded its head and turned on the spot, walking away as he said, "So be it."

Immediately, the circle closed in around the Elf. Rough clawed fingers wrapped around his arms and he was hauled to his feet and dragged across the hall. The Orcs regarded him with renewed excitement at the prospect of extracting information from one of the Firstborn they hated so deeply, or maybe they just looked forward to hearing his screams, hearing him begging for their mercy.

But Erestor set his jaw as he was strung up against the wall and stripped of his clothing. He would sooner die than expose Aragorn and Legolas to this Evil. In this he was determined.

And, as the Orcs swarmed around him, eyeing him greedily, various instruments of torment already poised in their hands, Erestor knew that Elrond's would not be the only Elven blood spilt in Rivendell this night.

**OIOI**

**Four Months Later…**

For all the lands now under his domination the Dark Lord Sauron remained safely ensconced behind the borders of what he had once considered to be his prison but was now transformed into his capital. Surrounded by his legions of mindlessly loyal Orcs and those enslaved to his will, he oversaw everything under his command, dispatching those under his vast veil of control to perform his whims. Soldiers, spies, raiders, slave traders – all looking to simply survive under this new command or desperately eager to spill the blood of those who still foolishly resisted the thrall of Sauron.

Mordor, a barren, dead land once secluded, divided from all else on Arda, now teemed with life from all races. The Orcs, Uruk-hai and Wraiths, created by the Dark Lord himself, reigned in the twisted multi-cultural land he had created from utter devastation after the first War upon the Shadow. Even they themselves were nothing but slaves though, serving only to enslave those lesser races brought amongst them: Men of all lands, Elves – at least those few who had survived the merciless massacres brought upon those most hated kingdoms – Dwarves and even Hobbits now served under the Dark Lord.

Sauron was ever careful though. One so powerful was always destined to be surrounded by treachery from the opposed, so only those thoroughly broken of their free will now actively served him and his Black Court.

Men made for good spies and workers for they were easily turned from past allegiances with the promise of survival and rewards for their loyalty even to that which they hated - and their women made for good sport for the ever-hungry creatures of the Shadow and, of course, provided a future supply of slaves in Mordor through their children. The Hobbits meanwhile were endlessly entertaining for the Orcs but they broke too easily to be of any use to the higher orders of the Shadow; because of this flaw they were all but extinct now. The Dwarves, stout and hardy creatures that they were, made for perfect labourers; ideal in a realm needing endless fortification, and for the building and maintenance of the rebuilt dark towers. And Elves, well, to the monsters of the Shadow, they were just good fun to possess and toy with. Immortal and proud, most were locked up in Mordor's many dungeons or thrown into the prison pits.

The Orcs, numerous though they were even before the beginning of the War, now positively swarmed over the lands, mingled with the stronger, much more resilient Uruk-hai gifted to Sauron from another land. Orcs were the sheer brute force of the army of Shadow. Thousands resided in the Black Lands to serve as protection for their master and tens of thousands more still roamed the rest of Middle Earth, keeping the people outside of Mordor terrified and enslaved and also constantly capturing new slaves and killing those who remained opposed to the new order. The Dark Lord's foresight had proven invaluable, for he had ordered long ago that their numbers be increased to allow him the power to do the work across his lands. It was fortunate indeed.

And Sauron oversaw all of this.

By the power of those who knew well the dark magics – including the White Wizard of Isengard and the Witchking of Angmar, who now resided in the tower of Minas Morgul – Sauron was no longer incorporeal as he had existed for centuries before the final uprising, but rather his spirit was now tethered to a physical body. He breathed, in a manner; and walked freely. But this necessary existence was decaying rapidly – quite literally. In the past year alone he had worn through four of his vessels, mainly the bodies of Elves broken to the point where their fea – or spirits – could no longer fight off the tendrils of Shadow that had been worked into them through dark magic.

Sauron needed something more permanent though, something incorruptible, and there was but one way to achieve that.

Hence, the heavily cloaked figure that was now knelt in front of the throne of black stone before the Dark Lord, also swathed in black robes of his own.

"You let them get away," the Dark Lord accused, his voice quiet but commanding absolute authority.

"We will find them again, Lord," the being spoke, his customary confidence now entirely missing from his demeanour.

"I sent you to the land of the Elven refuge. Our spies located them but you - you let them slip away."

Had he been capable of shivering, the creature whose job it was to act as the voice of Sauron outside the realm of Mordor would have been a quivering mess upon the floor by now in the face of the Dark Lord's quiet fury. However, he was bound to answer his master and he did so.

"They left sooner than we had anticipated."

The Lord Sauron sat back on his throne and asked darkly, "And those who showed them the way?"

"Dead, my Lord. I killed them myself." A minor lie, he considered, for he had actually let the Orcs have their fun with the Lord of Rivendell's infuriatingly stubborn advisor once he had realised that the Elf would surrender no information to them. Still, he had watched with no small amount of amusement as they had taken the screaming immortal apart piece by piece, savouring the increasingly rare opportunity to play with one of the Firstborn. And, as an offering to his Lord and master, the Voice of Sauron now carried the heads of those last two remaining Rivendell Elves with him in solid wooden crates. Proof of his attempt to follow orders.

As his servant most trusted recalled the delicious screams of his latest Elven victim, Sauron fell deep into thought. He didn't care that the remaining beings from the Elven sanctuary had not been brought to him alive. Even that most hated destroyer of his armies, the Half-Elven, paled into insignificance in comparison to that which he desired most of all. For it had not gone unnoticed to Sauron that that most precious thing, that thing that he craved above all else, was once again out in the open – not yet close enough to pinpoint exactly, but close enough to make him ache for it all the same. Soon enough though the child and his golden Elven ally, whom he suspected of carrying that which he held most dear would slip up and then he could, at long last, unleash that weapon most deadly, which even now waited patiently in Minas Morgul for his command.

Unconcerned for the time being, Sauron stood and the black-robed figure kneeling before him bowed even deeper, awed and terrified in equal measure for even he was not immune to the rage and malevolence of the Lord of Darkness.

"Go forth into the lands and find me that boy. Send an army if you must. I want him brought to me."

"Yes, Master." Then, more hesitantly, the Mouth of Sauron asked, "And what of the Elf?"

Waving a black, leather-gloved hand dismissively as he walked haltingly across the length of the throne room, Sauron replied, "Do with him what you will. He matters not to me." As he reached a tall plinth in the centre of the cavernous hall of his great tower of dominance, Barad-Dur, he paused and reached long fingers tentatively out towards the globe of polished black and deep purple stone shining with eerie yellow light that rested there, practically crackling with dark energy. He did not touch it, for there were some things he yet wanted to remain secret from the other keepers of the Palantiri, allies though they may have proclaimed themselves to be. "The child is all that matters now."

"I will find him, Master. Have faith in me, my Lord," the slimy creature begged, pressing its clawed hands together as if in prayer and smiling sickeningly.

Had he been able to, Sauron would have smiled through the rapidly decaying body he inhabited at the sycophant now cowering on his floor. His voice was unsettling, however, as he warned, "I have faith in your fear of me, Loyal One. And that will suffice. For now."

With that, the Dark Lord left and in spite of his loyalty to the cause of the Master of Shadow, the creature breathed a rattling sigh of relief as he climbed to his feet, a massive weight lifted from him now that that sense of all-consuming, suffocating darkness had left his presence.

Now all he had to do was locate this child that his master so longed to possess. Another cocky smile split his face as he strode from the room. How very pleased his lord would be when at last he found the boy.

For how hard could it be to find one unprotected child out in the beautiful wasteland of his master's Middle Earth?

**OIOI**

**Four Years After Leaving Rivendell…**

A strong hand was clamped over Aragorn's mouth and even though he struggled to breathe as it was through the thick air, he was immensely grateful for it because he couldn't have been entirely certain that if the hand were to be removed he would be able to keep entirely silent as was necessary. Close to his side – so close that he could feel the heaving chest and the panic carefully contained – Legolas was laid, just as he himself was, flat on his front, pressed onto the dust-covered wooden floor, rotted and crawling with all manner of irritating insects.

For nearly three weeks straight they had been running across open plains, chased by those who now still pursued them and from whom they now hid.

Normally Legolas would have never dared to enter a derelict house such as this, would never have ventured anywhere near any kind of settlement even if it stood so obviously unoccupied. But after so long on the move, Legolas knew that neither he or his human companion could run any longer so they had instead reached this small village, with the Orc patrol still unsettlingly close on their heels, chosen a small house that stood in the least state of disarray and hidden where they now laid on the floor under a broken bed in the hope that the Orcs would lose track of their scent and simply pass them by, finally giving them the opportunity to escape.

As the Orcs crashed through the deserted village, driven close to madness that their prey had managed to evade them for so long, Legolas listened intently, one hand pressed to Aragorn's mouth to prevent any sound from escaping and the other laid on the handle of the white knife that rested on the floorboards next to him.

They had rather hoped that the monsters would tire quickly of their search and leave promptly but it seemed that was not to be.

The front door to the house in which they now hid, which Legolas had left partially open in his haste, was nevertheless kicked off its hinges and pounding feet sounded across the floor of the front room. Panic raced through Legolas' body but he remained perfectly still and silent, relieved that for the most part he had calmed his breathing by now. By his side, Aragorn was tense as well, intermittently trying to hold his breath to avoid detection.

The door to the bedroom in which they were concealed was also kicked in and now Legolas and Aragorn could see the heavy feet of two Orcs sent to search for them.

Clearly the creatures were impatient with their hunt as they did not move about the room but instead started arguing in the Black Language, which neither Man nor Elf could understand. Still, it did not bode well, they thought.

Aragorn could not help the relief that flooded his body when, after no more than thirty seconds of arguing, the Orcs retreated from the room then followed their fellows out of the house, seemingly unaware that they had come so very close to capturing their intended prey. Slowly, Legolas removed his hand from the man's mouth but pressed his finger to his lips as an indication that they should still remain hidden and silent. The man nodded, listening intently for further sounds of the creatures nearby.

After a long while of inactivity, Aragorn dared to whisper, "Do you think they've gone?"

Legolas shook his head, unsure. "I don't know." He peered out from under the bed but could see nothing much.

"Should we go now?" the man asked still in a whisper, obviously impatient to leave even though both of them were exhausted from weeks of uninterrupted running. "Legolas?"

"Shush. Remain quiet," Legolas admonished in a hiss.

Although Aragorn scowled in annoyance at the command, he took heed and silenced any further impatient remarks.

It was a good job too because just a moment later the Orcs' shouts rose from outside. And although neither spoke the Black Speech of the Orcs, Legolas and Aragorn supposed that it couldn't possibly be anything good; a thought which was only reinforced when rowdy laughter started up amongst the creatures.

Legolas strained his hearing in an attempt to figure out what exactly they were up to and at his side Aragorn now remained absolutely silent. The next thing they knew there was another, smaller crash and a flaming torch appeared on the floor of the next room, visible through the now broken doorway as it rolled across the uneven floorboards until it came to a stop at the far side of the room.

Their panic immediately increased tenfold and without thinking they shuffled further under the bed, instinctively wanting to be as far away from this new danger as possible. Given that the house was made from largely rotten wood, the sparks from the torch set the old wood alight extremely fast and it was a mere matter of moments before the flames were threatening to consume the poky abode entirely.

Coming from outside the trapped pair could still hear the Orcs' raucous laughter.

"They're trying to flush us out," Aragorn gasped in horror.

To Aragorn, Legolas' reaction seemed to take an age to manifest, but then the Elf came to a decision and he nodded, reaching for his pack and swiftly withdrawing his other knife. "We have to go," he told his human charge sharply.

Before the Elf could slide out from under the bed, Aragorn grabbed his arm, asking in astonishment, "Out there? They're waiting for us. We won't last five minutes against all of them!"

"And neither will we last another five minutes in here! Arm yourself," the Elf commanded, proceeding to slither out from their hiding place, dragging his bag out with him.

"Right," the man ground out, withdrawing his stolen knife from the stolen sheath on his belt in one smooth, often-practised motioned. He too then slid out from under the bed, taking the helping hand Legolas offered him. He reached back under the bed to grab his own pack onto which was strapped the most precious item either of them owned – the Sword Re-forged. It was well-wrapped in cloth to protect its identity from unfriendly eyes and had yet to shed blood but the knowledge that its power was ever close at hand proved somewhat of a comfort to the young king.

"Keep low," Legolas told him, fighting the urge to violently cough through the increasingly thick smoke that was beginning to smother the building that had served only briefly as their sanctuary.

Crouching down, they reached the window and peered out. Through stinging, watery eyes, they could just make out the bulky shapes of the Orcs – a full score of them – scattered around the small cluster of houses that made up the settlement. They were well and truly surrounded.

"Well, what's the plan now?" Aragorn asked between coughs, keeping one eye on the flames beginning to lap at the bedroom doorway, consuming all the fuel in their path.

Legolas, meanwhile, focused his attentions on the threat waiting outside the house and considered their problem with as much calm as he could muster giving their ever-advancing death by fire. Then it struck him – the way out.

"Hold onto this," he commanded, shoving his pack at Aragorn. The man did as ordered and watched in bemusement as Legolas stripped off the dark red jacket he was wearing and wrapped it and tied it around one of his knives.

"What are you doing?" the man asked impatiently as Legolas, still keeping low, ran right towards the flames.

"Just stay down and get ready to run on my say-so," Legolas responded, having to shout above the roar of the fire. Reaching the raging flames, Legolas held out the knife, swathed in his jacket into the fire, twisting it so it caught entirely alight, creating a makeshift torch of his own.

From outside a shout from the leader of the Orcs came up in Westron, distracting Aragorn from watching his guardian's increasingly bizarre actions. "Come out, come out now. We don't want to hurt you," the foul creature sneered, then added an amused, "Much," to the end of its false promise, provoking laughter from its companions near enough to hear.

"Move aside," Legolas interrupted Aragorn's disgust, shoving the boy out of his way. He then proceeded to use his flaming torch to set fire to the crumbling wood under the window.

"Legolas, what are you doing?" Aragorn this time exclaimed in horror, considering whether his guardian had finally lost his mind.

"Providing us with some cover."

"By burning down the whole place? Cover won't do us much good when we're roasted alive."

"Would you please just trust me?" Legolas said as he shook off what remained of the smouldering jacket from his hot knife. "Get ready. Keep low and try to keep to the cover the smoke provides. We'll head around the back of the building. Maybe we'll get lucky and sneak away without even being noticed."

"Right – and when have we ever been lucky?"

Legolas shot his companion a dismissive look, although privately he had to admit that the man did indeed have a point.

They waited until the smoke had thickened sufficiently to conceal their escape – and very nearly choking them in the process – then climbed carefully through the window, keeping low to the ground but moving fast around the building. Although hidden from sight and even though they knew the noxious smoke would conceal their scents as well, both kept their weapons poised, ready to fight if their plan to run failed them.

Legolas' barmy plan seemed to actually work at first but the Orcs, who it seemed had torched every home in the abandoned village to flush their prey out, were ready and as the two friends made a mad dash around the burning structures, the shout went up and the pounding of heavy feet thundered towards them.

Determined to escape, Legolas urged his ward to continue on regardless, wanting to avoid a fight if at all possible. The Orcs were many and he and Aragorn had little strength left to spare.

They must have kept up their pace for nearly six hours before the Orcs, after three long weeks of no success, finally caught up with their quarry and Legolas and Aragorn were unfortunately forced to abandon fleeing in favour of fighting.

Considering they had been denied their prizes for so long, it was not surprising that the Orcs attacked with vigour unusual even for the foul servants of the Shadow. Simultaneously, the two defenders fought and attempted a retreat but on the barren plains of Eriador there was no place to seek shelter from this evil. They had no choice but to fight until the bitter end.

However, they were two against twenty and these were never to be considered good odds. Orc, Elf and Man knew this fact to be true and yet still they fought.

The two travellers were weary though and despite killing a few of the monsters, they were still nowhere near at their best. Aragorn soon found himself being held on the ground being kicked repeatedly by heavy boots, devoid of his pack and his sword, the Orcs taunting and hurting him for their entertainment rather than simply killing him outright. How these creatures loved to torment their prey.

Through a haze of panic and pain, Aragorn suddenly heard a sharp cry of pain from Legolas nearby and he peered through thick Orkish legs just in time to see the Elf's shoulder be impaled by a small but deadly sharp dagger and he watched in horror as Legolas fell to his knees, his own weapon falling uselessly from his hand as the Orcs advanced menacingly on their wounded prey.

Aragorn feared a great many things in his life – the fate that awaited him, the enormity of his destiny, being struck down by Orcs, spiders – but nothing terrified him half as much as losing his only friend and guardian to the Shadow.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, giving him the strength through pain and exhaustion to reach out his hand towards his backpack, lying all but forgotten on the ground a couple of feet away from him. A heavily booted foot nearly thwarted his plan, whether by design or simply by accident, when it stomped on his hand. Despite the pain the action caused though, when the clumsy foot was removed, he was able to move his bruised fingers once again and snag the strap of the bag he'd been aiming for.

Only one single weapon was carried in his particular bag because, although twenty-nine long years had passed since his birth, Legolas still thought Aragorn too young and inexperienced to be in charge of carrying all their shoddy, scavenged weaponry. To Legolas, after all, twenty-nine years old was still but an infant.

Still, Aragorn knew that right then only one weapon mattered – the sword that was still safely strapped to the top of the bag. He grabbed the handle and tugged at it until it came loose. Twisting onto his front with a grunt of pain, he forced his stiff fingers to unwrap the carefully wound fabric to reveal a bright, glistening new blade etched with sweeping Tengwar script and positively thrumming with the ancient magic of the Elves.

Never before had Aragorn wielded this most valued sword in battle or with the intention to kill and yet now, as he raised it to strike at the Orcs who had harmed him and his guardian, he felt a power unlike anything he had ever experienced before and strength rushed through his body so that he was at last able to regain his feet.

At the sight of Anduril shining brightly in the dull light of day, the Orcs took an involuntary step backwards, looking to one another in something akin to horror although they knew not why. They did not know, could not have known, that this very sword had once been used to destroy their master, yet they could sense the magic contained within the hard steel and it scared them. Their momentary shock at the thrill of magic permeating the air gave Aragorn the opportunity he needed to climb up from the ground and strike out at the dumbfounded Orcs surrounding him, for intrinsically powerful though Anduril may have been it was still a weapon designed for slaughter and it fulfilled its purpose well.

The sword had never been used before by him in battle but in Aragorn's hands it felt so perfectly natural to wield that it almost stole his breath away. It was as if the simple handle and attached blade were a solid extension of his own arm. He cut through the Orcs far more easily than would normally have been possible, spurred on by confidence he'd no idea he even possessed, as though drawing strength from the legendary blade in his hands.

Before he knew it, the Orcs who had been so ruthlessly beating him, lay hacked to pieces on the black blood-soaked ground and Aragorn turned to find Legolas still trying to fend off his own attackers with much less success, being injured as he was. How little time had passed, he wondered? Had he really slaughtered those foul beasts so quickly?

"No!" Aragorn yelled as one Orc who had managed to position itself behind the Elf raised its weapon for the killing blow. He charged recklessly at the creature, swinging his sword, now glistening black with the polluted blood of the Orcs, so it cleanly sliced off the startled monster's head. The strength running through him – from Anduril, he still presumed – continued and soon he had decimated almost half of the eight Orcs left surrounding them with seemingly minimal effort.

Legolas himself finished off another two and in doing so was given a view of Aragorn fighting beside him.

"Aragorn, no!" the Elf exclaimed when he caught sight of Anduril in full view of the agents of Shadow.

The boy, in confusion at the obvious over-reaction in mid-battle, froze, great sword poised mid-air, and asked, "What?" of his mentor incredulously.

His distraction gave the two surviving Orcs an opening and, upon realising there would be no way now to fight their way out of that kind of fury and power, they decided to run and hope for the best.

"What's wrong?" Aragorn was asking as, clutching his injured shoulder with one hand, Legolas was still glaring in dark annoyance at him.

However, before he could answer, Legolas caught sight of the two Orcs now retreating across the plain and panic lit his eyes in place of anger. Before Aragorn was able to further demand an explanation, the Elf had launched himself after the Orcs, leaving Aragorn behind to watch in ever-growing confusion and bewilderment. Legolas raced after the creatures so fast that the Human had little chance of keeping up with him anyway.

The slower of the Orcs was killed instantly by a single slashing motion of the golden prince's knife and went down immediately. Legolas did not break stride though, pushing his long legs onwards in spite of the aching from running for so many days and the pulsing pain of his injury sustained in battle. He was desperate to catch that last, fleeing Orc before it was beyond his reach entirely.

He knew that it was inevitable that this creature had seen the Sword Re-forged and although it may not have fully understood the significance of the weapon, it undoubtedly recognised the immense and ancient power within the blade and with this knowledge would surely report the strange sighting to its superiors and then the Dark Lord would no doubt be informed if something of unknown mystical origin existed within his lands. The Lord Sauron would certainly know of the Sword's origins and of the one destined to wield it.

Legolas could not let that creature report back.

After what felt to both parties like leagues of ground travelled, the Orc finally began to slow. Unfortunately, it offered Legolas very little advantage as he too was by now feeling the strain of running so far at such a speed.

Realising that the Elf was not going to quit the chase, the Orc veered off to the left towards a stand of naked trees made vague by a low-lying mist. Even with no foliage on them, Legolas knew it would not be difficult to get lost within these closely packed trees. He picked up his pace, his feet pounding on the ground, but failed to reach the creature before it plunged into the misty wood.

True to its promise of concealment, the wood swallowed the Orc up in mere moments. Legolas searched desperately for a while but could find no trace of the ungainly monster.

A crack of a twig behind him made Legolas spin on his heels, knife raised, but the source turned out to be only Aragorn, panting heavily from chasing after his speeding guardian.

"Damn it," Legolas cursed loudly.

"What is wrong with you?" breathed Aragorn in confusion, still not knowing the cause of Legolas' concern and distress over one Orc escaping their blades. Given the odds, Aragorn had to count this as a sound victory.

Legolas shoved his knives back into the bag Aragorn held out for him and yelled at the top of his voice, "Do you have any idea what you have done?"

Aragorn shrugged helplessly, honestly not seeing what had upset his normally stable guardian so. "No, I really don't," he admitted easily.

The Elf sighed in annoyance then ran his shaking, blood-streaked hand over his eyes. "I told you not to use that! I told you it was too dangerous. Why did you not listen to my instruction?"

"Use what?" Aragorn frowned but then he followed Legolas' burning gaze to the long, black-slickened sword he still held in his hands and he raised his eyebrows in surprise. "The sword? That's what you're so angry about?"

"Yes!"

"_Why_?"

The Elf made an exclamation of annoyance but it was in the tongue of the Elves so Aragorn couldn't hope to make out the words, although he imagined it to be filthy.

"Why? That sword you bear is more than simply a fine blade. It is infused with ancient magic beyond your comprehension and is bound to only one. You, Aragorn, son of Arathorn and heir to the Throne of Gondor, are the only one who can use that sword to its true potential and now Sauron knows of it he will also know of your existence and he knows also that you have the magic of the Elves on your side. He knows now that the King of Men has allies scattered around and that makes you an unparalleled threat to his empire." Slowly, Legolas' anger deflated as he saw the fear now blatantly apparent on the man's face at his perhaps overly blunt narrative of what was to come. "How knows of you now, Aragorn. And he knows of your power."

With Anduril suddenly feeling unbearably heavy in his hand and the burden of his future now resting more profoundly than ever upon his heart, Aragorn asked haltingly, "But…he won't be able to find me, right? He can't find me."

"Sauron's spies reach far and wide, Aragorn. He _can_."

"But…you won't let him, will you?" For most of his life now, Legolas had been his guardian and his protector; he was absolutely convinced that the Elven prince would hide him from this new evil that threatened them both. This time though, Legolas' confidence appeared to have been shaken and he turned away so he wouldn't have to look the boy in the eye. "Legolas?" Aragorn demanded an answer. "You're not going to give up on me, right?"

Blue eyes met suddenly frightened grey and Legolas hesitated for a moment before replying in a quiet, shaky voice, "Of course I won't."

"I'm sorry," the man said, his own voice so small-sounding as he lowered his gaze in shame. He'd put them both into unimaginable danger simply because he had failed to heed the often repeated advice of the one he trusted above all others. Tears filling his eyes, Aragorn said in a cracked voice, "I bet that by now you're wishing you'd never rescued me as a child; your life would have been so much simpler if I wasn't around."

Without warning, Legolas strode over to him and Aragorn was dragged into a tight, one-armed hug and held close as Legolas embraced him tight to his chest. "I don't ever want you thinking that! I regret nothing. I will always protect you, no matter what the cost," Legolas promised with fierce conviction. He held Aragorn close for a long while but then pulled back once again, once more evading Aragorn's watery gaze. "We have to get back on track, find the Rangers if we can"

"Wait. You are hurt," Aragorn suddenly remembered, his gaze going to Legolas' shoulder, which was covered in ripped, blood-stained fabric. "That looks bad."

Legolas looked down, as if he too was only now remembering that he had sustained a wound in battle. "We'll put some more leagues behind us and this place then find shelter when we can. We'll worry about everything else once we're somewhere safe." He realised then that Aragorn too had been injured, beaten by the Orcs and his look immediately changed from determination to concern. "Are you alright to carry on?"

"Yes." This whole mess had been of his making; he'd do whatever he had to in order to get them out of this trouble.

"You're sure?"

"I am. Let's just leave this place."

Legolas nodded, agreeing whole-heartedly with the man's decision, then led the way from the dead forest.

What happened from now on was out of their control. All they could do was run.

**To Be Continued…**


	25. Rangers Of The North

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: A big thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed! Enjoy chapter 25.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 25 – Rangers of the North**

**Two Months Later…**

Legolas looked thoughtfully out over the immense flat plains visible to him that made up most of Eriador. There was depressingly little out there to see but vast oceans of dried, cracked mud and the odd dead remnant of some unfortunate tree that had long ago perished in the dry, inhospitable lands. But since their battle with the Orcs two months previous and the very real possibility that the armies of Shadow would soon be hot on their tails once more, he wasn't going to take any chances by dropping his vigilance.

After fleeing the woods as fast as their feet could carry them for fear of further Orc patrols and attacks, they had run for another two days straight before finally conceding that they must allow their shattered bodies some respite from the extended exertion. Once they had both seen to their battle wounds they'd fallen into exhausted sleep and taken some time to regain some of their much depleted strength. After that brief respite they had gotten back on track searching the lands constantly for the elusive Rangers of the North in the continued vain hope that they might possibly remain protectors of this broken, dead land.

Two seemingly endless months of terror-filled days and nights had followed. Their search continued to this very day to be frustratingly fruitless. At long last, Legolas had consented to putting a stop to their quest for more than a few hours. Both were thoroughly worn out and needed time to regain their strength before going on any further. At such a pace as Legolas had been setting, one or both of them would have been dead by the time they found the Rangers. Aragorn had argued that it could not continue and Legolas had been forced to agree with rationality over desire.

So, for three days now they had been camped atop Amon Sul, the great ancient watchtower of Men. Aragorn had been thoroughly overwhelmed by its sheer size in the beginning. Built atop an impressively high hill, it overlooked the great plains so the travellers could see for leagues in all directions when it was clear even though this land was void of anything interesting.

Crumbled and ruined though it was after years of desertion, Aragorn was fascinated by the simple but strong structure of Amon Sul. It had, after all, been built by his ancestors. Legolas had not been able to answer the majority of the boy's seemingly endless questions about the place, knowing relatively little about this region himself. Pretty much all he could recall from various readings during his childhood of long and boring history lessons was of Amon Sul's famous throne, which legend claimed gave the sitter eyesight beyond Human or even Elven capability. Upon telling Aragorn of this legend, the man had insisted that it was at least worth trying, so on their second day of resting there, they'd walked all the way to the pinnacle to sit upon the throne of the enlightened. It had proven rather a disappointment, as nothing more had been visible to either traveller other than that which the naked eye could make out over the continually mist-shrouded plains. Dismissing the legends as false, they'd contented with using the watchtower merely as a shelter from them and Aragorn had spoken no more on the matter, as if it was a personal affront that the legends had proven false.

Dawn had only just risen over Amon Sul as Legolas stood on a low stone wall on the edge of the crumbling ruins. It was typically quiet but for the eerie rumbling from the far Eastern realm, although Legolas expected nothing more.

The thick, damp air around him was chilly and he shivered slightly. This involuntary action was followed by an equally unintentional hiss of pain that slipped through his clenched teeth. Gingerly, he cradled his left arm, waiting for the throbbing to subside before he drew his next breath.

The wound that he had received two months previously still stubbornly refused to heal properly. As far as he could tell, the deep gash had at some point become infected; the result of a filthy Orc blade and no real herbs to counter infection. Fortunately it had not yet brought with it any life-endangering symptoms, just this deep throbbing pain that would not abate. Surely, after all these years with that biting agony wedged inside his chest he could stand an aching shoulder. Still, it bothered him only because it hampered his fighting ability somewhat.

With a careful sigh, Legolas turned away from observing the empty barren lands that surrounded Amon Sul, and walked back around the ruins to the most sheltered part of the hill where Aragorn lay sleeping huddled beneath their blanket. Legolas had sensibly insisted that whilst there was still the risk of Orc patrols discovering them at least one of them be on lookout at all times.

Usually, Legolas took the watch at night then slept for a few hours in the morning whilst Aragorn took over. The rest of their time was spent strategizing, trying to work out what they were going to do next. Unfortunately, they did not get much further than any other time they'd talked it over. All they could do was continue their search for the Rangers. For both though, it felt very much as it had done when they'd been walking the Old Forest Road years ago: like they were getting nowhere.

Legolas did not wake the young man right away, instead leaving him to sleep whilst he himself watched the mists slowly begin to clear. The skies above remained cloudy grey and he felt the claustrophobic weight of the savaged world pressing heavily down on him, threatening to suffocate him if he thought on it too long and he shuddered again in the chill of the dawn.

"Are you alright?" Aragorn's quiet voice broke the unnatural hush, making Legolas startle.

He looked down at the young man, who was now propped up on one elbow, watching him with worried grey eyes. The man always looked worried these days; Legolas didn't like to think that he was adding to his concern unnecessarily. And yet he knew that he unintentionally ended up doing just that most of the time.

So he smiled thinly and answered, "Of course I'm alright."

Aragorn nodded, adding his own small smile, equally as fake as his guardian's. "How's your shoulder?"

"Getting better at last, I think."

This was a blatant lie and Aragorn knew it. He'd been worried that the Elf's wound refused to heal even after months, and although Legolas continually assured him that it was all fine and it would just take some time to get better again, he could see that the stab wound caused his guardian considerable discomfort even in the simplest of movements.

However, as ever, he went along with the lie to save a lengthy argument and incurring his guardian's bad mood, nodding gently in understanding. Climbing up off the ground, Aragorn stretched his arms above his head, looking to the dark skies overhead.

"I hope it isn't going to rain," he said, changing the direction of the conversation to a more neutral and thus safer topic.

"Hm," Legolas agreed vaguely, reluctantly following the man's gaze skywards. "We have good enough shelter here if it does."

Aragorn looked around himself and sighed. "This place is just so bleak."

Legolas couldn't help but scoff at this observation. "Everywhere on this earth is bleak now. Why should this monument be any different?" He too got to his feet, noticeably more carefully than his companion. "It is sad though, a great pity; once this place was probably truly majestic."

"Maybe one day it will be again."

"Maybe." For a moment, the Elf seemed to drift away into thought, his eyes glazing over, unseeing. Aragorn watched him discreetly. He didn't like it when Legolas became introspective, even though he should have been more than used to it by now, it was hardly a rare occurrence, it never had been as a matter of fact. It was not long this time before Legolas surfaced from wherever he had been in his mind and he smiled once again at Aragorn. "Now it is your turn to watch, if you are rested enough."

"Yes. You should sleep; gather your strength before you move on."

Legolas openly laughed at this, making Aragorn blush slightly at his boldness in speaking to his lordly guardian. "As you command, so shall I obey."

Carefully, the prince laid down and dragged the blanket over himself. He trusted Aragorn enough not to worry for his own safety as he slept. The boy would keep his watch just as he swore he would do, just as he had done for the past two mornings now. So, Legolas closed his eyes, tried to relax his tense, aching body and waited for sleep to claim him.

**OIOI**

A faraway sound made Aragorn shift uncomfortably against the rock he was leaning on. It sounded like footsteps, distant footsteps. Turning his head wearily to one side and not bothering to open his eyes, Aragorn decided that it must just have been Legolas doing one of his regular patrols around the ruins to ensure their security. He sighed to himself and tried to fall back to sleep. Except now that he was disturbed he couldn't quite return to his previous state of peace and he couldn't, try as he might, figure out why - not as he was anyway. To figure out the source of his disquiet he would have to open his eyes. But it was still daytime, he realised instinctively. He surely shouldn't be sleeping during the daylight hours. That was what was wrong. He should be taking his turn to watch.

Aragorn's eyes snapped open at this revelation to discover that it was indeed still daylight out. And the footsteps were getting closer, Aragorn heard. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of gold and his head snapped around to see that Legolas remained, as he should be, asleep beneath their shared blanket. And yet the footsteps persisted.

He sat up straight in panic, eyes finally fully focusing on the world around him, although he could see nothing out of place in the vicinity, no obvious intruders on the ruins. The footsteps continued to sound though – surely that could only be bad news. Aragorn leapt to his feet, almost tripping in his haste. All his weapons were in the bag, which was resting near to the sleeping Elf where he'd left it earlier in the morning.

"Legolas," Aragorn hissed urgently as he fell to his knees in order to open their bags and retrieve, not Anduril, but his more modest stolen sword just in case they needed to defend their camp from intruders.

Of course, Legolas was up instantly at the sound of his ward's urgent exclamation of his name. "What?" he demanded quietly, his blue eyes already taking in the ruins of Amon Sul around him for the threat he suspected to be present. Then he too heard what had disturbed Aragorn and he snatched up his twin blades that rested on the stone by his side, leaping to his feet in one smooth, well-practiced movement. "Who?" he whispered, looking to Aragorn for answers.

The boy shook his head, already breathing hard in anticipation of what might come. "I don't know." He felt Legolas' piercing gaze settle on him and he couldn't stand up to it, as he had never been able to. He had to be honest. "I fell asleep," he confessed guiltily, eyes flickering briefly over to his guardian for the reaction.

Legolas said nothing but Aragorn could feel his anger nonetheless. At that moment though, they had more important things to think about, such as the possibly dangerous invaders now ascending the hilltop.

They moved forwards slowly towards the sounds of approaching footsteps, weapons clutched and ready to engage any enemy that might appear around the ruins. The footsteps heading in their direction showed no such caution, however, as they progressed steadily up the grassy hill towards the pair. Legolas could tell from their smoothness and weight that they were not Orc feet; they sounded more like Human feet. But that did not allay any of his fears. Men could be just as dangerous and this was their domain he and Aragorn were intruding on.

As they drew closer, Legolas suddenly grabbed Aragorn by the sleeve and pulled him down to crouch and hide behind a crumbling pillar so they could not be seen. He peered over the top just as the first of the enemy came to the top of the hill. Not Orcs but, as he had suspected, Men. A band of around twenty Men appeared in a disorganised huddle, laughing and shoving each other good-naturedly as they walked. All carried weapons on their belts although none of them were drawn so they clearly did not expect company on Weathertop and were not on alert for it. It was odd, Legolas considered, that these Men showed so little concern for the strict procedures any sensible person would enforce in this dangerous land; they didn't even seem to have a scout. Foolish, indeed.

It took the Men mere minutes to settle themselves amongst the crumbling ruins of Amon Sul, throwing down the heavy packs they carried and sprawling on the hard ground as if it were a feather-filled mattress they reclined on and not cold stone.

Only their leader remained standing, glancing around the place with sharp eyes. He turned to his fellow men with a stern expression upon his weathered face, although it softened somewhat when he addressed them.

"Secure the camp and start a fire," the tall man ordered shortly. There were groans of objection and disapproval amongst the other Men, followed by a bustling argument over who was going to do the chores this time. None seemed particularly willing, each recommending the other for the task. "Now," the leader demanded with a humorous roll of his eyes at their disobedience.

The Men got to their feet with exaggerated effort and set about removing wood from their packs – another oddity, Legolas observed – and started to build up a fire. More worryingly, they also seemed to now be deciding who would scout the ruins – too late, perhaps, but it could still mean trouble for Aragorn and Legolas who remained effectively hidden.

As the men split up and began their search for possible threats amongst the ancient ruins of Amon Sul, Aragorn tugged urgently on Legolas' sleeve and breathed, "Let's go." When the Elf didn't comply, he urged again, "Legolas, come on."

"Just wait a moment," the Elf answered in a whisper, laying his hand calmingly on Aragorn's arm to prevent him from moving away as he clearly wished to do.

"What?" the young man asked in increasing confusion.

"Look," Legolas said simply, nodding vaguely in the direction of the apparent leader of the group of Men, who was now overseeing his men in their assigned duties.

"At what?" Aragorn hissed in annoyance. His last experience of strange Men had not exactly been a good one and he had no wish to repeat it, and he didn't understand why Legolas was now lingering amidst the danger. However, he followed the Elf's steady blue gaze, searching for what Legolas saw that he didn't.

"The mark of Gondor," Legolas whispered by way of explanation. When the leader of the Men had dropped his pack on the ground, Legolas had noticed the tattered silver embroidered symbol – the white tree crowned with stars: the ancient symbol of the Southern Kingdom of Gondor. True, the pack could have been stolen but Legolas did not think so; these Men were different from those warped by the changing world, they seemed more sensible, less wild than the others. He couldn't place why but he didn't feel the cold stab of fear with them.

Aragorn did not share his sentiment and remained eager to leave.

So, when, quite unexpectedly, Legolas got to his feet, revealing them both to the Men, Aragorn's heart pounded in fear and shock. What was his guardian playing at? Was he looking to get killed? He wondered briefly whether the Elf was suffering from some fever stemming from the fact that he was injured. Surely that was the only explanation for the Elf's sudden recklessness.

The eyes of every man in the ancient ruins turned instantly to the tall blonde creature who had so unexpectedly appeared amongst them. Despite the undetermined nature of this new person, there was a long pause during which it seemed everyone simply froze to take in the sight. They all looked completely stunned. This was the last thing they had expected to see on Weathertop during their respite and they were embarrassingly unprepared.

However, sense was restored moments later when the Men quickly drew their well-maintained weapons and trained them on the Elf. A moment too late had they been facing a true enemy, Legolas thought.

"Leave this place and we will allow you to live," the leader of the Men commanded strongly, his own sword trained on Legolas.

At the threatening words, Aragorn also sprung up into view, ready to defend his guardian if he had to. It didn't seem possible for the Men to be any more surprised at the appearance of this second intruder. They stared dumbly; amazed that they had been so fooled by not just one but by two people.

Glancing across at Aragorn, who was standing trying to appear as intimidating as possible beside his mentor, Legolas held up his hand to the Men, saying softly, "Put your weapons down."

The leader of the band of Men stared dumbfounded by Legolas' bold command; this was not how he had imagined their brief stay at Weathertop would turn out at all. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time anyone had dared to speak to him so audaciously. For a long while he could think of nothing at all to say and his companions stood anxiously waiting for his next orders, as uncertain about this situation as their leader.

Tired of waiting, it was Legolas who broke the tension and the silence. "I am Prince Legolas Thranduilion and this is Aragorn, my ward," he announced with a formality that Aragorn had never heard from him before. Certainly, he couldn't recall ever hearing Legolas use his formal title with anyone. "We mean you no harm," Legolas quickly assured the astonished Human leader. "In fact, I believe you are the ones we have long been searching for."

Finally, the human found his voice although it was not quite as commanding as he would have wished, "Searching for me?"

"For your people," Legolas clarified calmly at the misunderstanding. "That is, if you are those protectors who call themselves the Rangers of the North."

The Men all glanced at one another in surprise at the tall blonde man's strong words, belaying confidence gleaned from years of experience. Their leader shook his head in amazement before turning back to the two strangers. "We are."

Legolas looked across at his companion and smiled vaguely in an 'I told you so' kind of way. Then, ignoring the concern clearly etched on Aragorn's features, he sheathed his two knives that had been held loosely in his hands and stepped around the stone structure behind which he and the boy had been hiding. Boldly, he walked right up to the man, who was obviously their leader.

"It is nice to meet you…" Legolas greeted, pausing for a name.

"Kinnale," the leader of the Rangers introduced himself vaguely, still a little stunned by all of this. "Nice to meet you, Legolas."

The Elf nodded in return, forcing a bright smile and then turned to look back at his young charge, who remained loitering uncertainly behind the Elven prince, untrusting of the Rangers even though they were the ones whom the pair had been searching for all these months.

"Come and say hello," Legolas prompted encouragingly.

Aragorn stepped forward hesitantly and mumbled, "Hello."

"Hello, Aragorn," Kinnale greeted with equal awkwardness.

For a while they stood in silence, discreetly sizing each other up. It was a strange position for both sides to be in.

The Rangers had met many enemies in their extensive travels and had even come across the odd person who had no evil intent, but usually they killed or left them to their own devices respectively. Very occasionally someone actively sought them out for protection or in the hope of aligning themselves with the well-armed protectors of Eriador but they tended to be denied their wish. Resources were scarce and the Rangers travelled constantly across the lands.

These strange people they were now faced with were somehow different though. Travel-worn and appearing to be half-starved and completely exhausted, they nevertheless radiated goodness. They were not on the side of the Shadow, that much was perfectly clear even at first glance.

Kinnale found himself most intrigued by the blonde one. Standing tall and proud despite the filthy rags he wore and despite his downtrodden countenance, this self-proclaimed 'prince' was clearly a great leader – or at least had been at some point in the past. Of what land, he did not know, but there was an air of royalty about him that could not be faked. He spoke with confidence and strength, his blue eyes wise beyond his years.

The other, Aragorn, was an entirely different creature altogether. Quiet and skittish, he hid behind the taller man despite the blonde's continued attempts to push him forward. He was young, although he held his weapons as though he had used them plenty in his few years.

No doubt the odd pair had seen their fair share of adversity and it had understandably made them wary.

Whilst the Men were observing the strangers, Aragorn was peering around Legolas – who had no such qualms about staring quite openly at the Men – trying to see what they had walked into.

All in all, the Rangers of the North that they had sought for so long were a rugged bunch. They stood tense and prepared for anything that may occur; well-maintained weapons remained close at hand as their leader stared at Legolas in amazement. Clad in woollen cloaks of dull grey or forest green, clasped with elaborately made silver brooches, they all wore similar clothes, an attempt at creating a uniform perhaps, of grey or black, all of which was looked after with obvious care and pride.

They were generally tall, almost as tall as Legolas himself, all with dark eyes, pale skin and stern expressions. In fact, Aragorn noted with a vague sense of bemusement, they all looked very much like him, except that he had neither their height nor their health.

Finally, after long moments of simply staring each other down, Legolas took the next step and broke through the barrier of bemused silence.

"You are stopping here for the night?" he asked almost conversationally.

"We were planning to. But that was before we stumbled upon you," Kinnale replied honestly. "How long have you been here exactly?"

"But a few days. We have been travelling for a long time; we had paused for rest."

"I see. So running into us was coincidence then."

"Ironic, isn't it?" Legolas quirked a smile at the Human.

Kinnale also smiled at him in agreement but then he glanced across at his fellow Men who still looked openly dubious about the strangers. "We don't have any food to spare, or any clothing or blankets."

Legolas held up his hand in protest and assured, "We ask for nothing from you, sir."

"Nothing?"

"Well, perhaps a private word – but that should cost you nothing." He looked then to Aragorn, who had bowed his head further, and then added seriously, "There is much we need to discuss."

Kinnale frowned deeply but then nodded. Talk cost nothing, as the blonde man had said. "Very well." He ordered his Men, "Start a fire and get some food prepared."

As Legolas and the leader of the Rangers went to walk away, Aragorn went to follow them, wanting to remain close to his guardian but Legolas turned back to him and said, "You stay here. Get yourself warm."

"No; I'm not leaving you alone with him."

Legolas laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, looking deep into his eyes. "I'll be fine. There are some things we have to talk about and it will be easier if I do it alone." Kinnale frowned at the seriousness of these words; clearly they meant something to both men as Aragorn nodded grimly in response. He trusted the older man implicitly although it was clear from their completely opposing appearances that they were not relations. "Rest. I shall not be gone long." Legolas softly told Aragorn, squeezing his shoulder and then finally releasing his ward.

Aragorn nodded and this time made no protest when Legolas moved away. Kinnale, increasingly intrigued by this odd couple, followed the blonde away from the forming camp.

"Perhaps we can take a walk around the ruins; for the privacy," Legolas suggested to the Ranger, who nodded in agreement after checking that his sword was within close reach just in case this man meant to do him some harm when they got to be alone, and followed Legolas as he left the area of the camp.

Legolas put a fair distance between them and the other Rangers before he slowed his pace and broke the thoughtful silence.

"Forgive my need for secrecy," the prince finally spoke with a small smile, "but what I have to say is of the utmost importance and I fear it will not be easy for you to accept. I wanted to confide it to you first, so that you may decide, without the complications that would surely arise from hearing the instinctive reactions of your fellow Rangers, how to proceed."

Clearing his throat anxiously, Kinnale answered, "Very well. Continue."

Legolas took a deep, cleansing breath and stepped away, turning his back on the tall Human whilst he gathered his thoughts. What had to be said was too important to word incorrectly. Both his and Aragorn's future now depended upon this man's reaction.

"My ward, Aragorn, came into my care when he was only nine years old. His father was Arathorn. His mother had died in childbirth. That Aragorn himself survived I now believe to be little short of a miracle. Arathorn, rightly or wrongly, raised his son in ignorance of who he is."

"And who is that?"

"Heir to the throne of Gondor."

A long silence followed. The Human was understandably stunned and Legolas kept his silence, knowing it was a lot to take in and that the man needed time to think on what he had just heard.

"Heir…?" The tall man shook his head then suddenly grinned widely, displaying well-kept white teeth. "That…" he started through his laughter, pointing with one finger towards Legolas in amusement, "that is a fine joke, friend." He moved so that he was at Legolas' side then threw one strong arm over bony shoulders. "But all this trouble…You see, Gondor has no king."

"No; it is ruled at the moment, I believe, by a Steward – a guardian to the throne who sits upon it only until the true king is returned."

"The true line of kings is long broken. None can restore it," Kinnale said with some sadness as he moved to start walking again, one arm still across Legolas' shoulders.

"It is restored. Indeed, it was never broken; merely exiled – like so many others."

"And this…Aragorn, son of Arathorn, is such an exile?"

"They are descended from Elendil's line."

"Impossible."

"The boy is living proof."

"No. Whatever delusion this is, I am sorry but it is not so." Kinnale now looked upon the blonde man with unabashed pity and he clapped his hand on Legolas' shoulder. "Come, let's get some warm food into you and then tomorrow we will take you to the nearest village and get you some help."

Pulling away in disgust, Legolas snapped, "I am not crazy! I tell you only the truth."

"I believe that you believe that to be so. But listen closely to me now, for your own good; whispering such things is dangerous. If the Enemy should hear this slander then there would be no place for you to run."

Legolas sighed. "We are already pursued. I fear the Lord of Darkness tracks us already, although we have evaded his servants thus far."

"So you sought us out for your own protection then? No matter what you have heard, we are not guards for hire, no bribe can tempt us."

"You are true to your mission – incorruptible," Legolas smiled in some satisfaction. "I admire that quality greatly. You are all I had hoped you would be."

"Is that so?"

"Indeed it is."

"Well then I am glad for it." The man turned away, increasingly bewildered by this blonde creature proclaiming himself to be a prince and to having found the long lost line of kings. Madness was by no means uncommon but he had rather hoped that this seemingly friendly pair would be different; they appeared to be good people. "Now we will return to our camp and get some food into you. You look like you are about to fade away."

"He carries the ring of Barahir," Legolas informed the man bluntly.

Kinnale stopped abruptly in his tracks. "Excuse me?"

"The ring of Barahir; the ring of the kings of Gondor."

"How…?" Slowly, Kinnale turned around to see Legolas holding up a small band of silver.

"An heirloom tied exclusively to the line of Gondorian kings. No other can possess it. His father passed it to me to give to Aragorn when he came of age. Along with it came the knowledge of his bloodline and the promise to protect him. Arathorn told me that his son would one day be great. But he cannot be so on his own, hence we have been searching for you."

Swallowing thickly, Kinnale asked, "To what end?"

"A king rediscovered requires a force behind him."

"We are but few."

"Enough for us."

"What does he need an army for?"

It was now Legolas' turn to lay his hand on the man's shoulder and he smiled softly. "To take back that which has been stolen from us."

"What?" was all the gobsmacked Ranger could squeak out.

"Our lands, our people; everything that the Dark Lord took from us."

Another long silence followed as the Human openly gaped at the Elf. Only after a while did the man finally choke out, "You intend to take on Sauron himself?"

"Not me."

"The boy?"

"He cannot stand alone. He needs allies. Does he have an ally in you?"

"I…I…What you're asking, it's madness. Surely you can see that."

"It will not be easy."

"No, it is impossible."

"Aragorn can do that which no other Man can: he can reunite the scattered tribes of Men, bring them back together. The only way to triumph over the Shadow is to unite under one banner. The Steward has done no such thing under his rule. Gondor needs a king, a new hope, and Aragorn is that hope. He can do what others have failed at."

"Destroy Sauron?"

"_Kill _Sauron," Legolas corrected.

"Kill…?" The man walked a couple of paces away, passing his hands over his rugged face and then running his fingers through his long hair.

"The death of the Dark Lord is the only way to end this for good, to restore order and Light."

Kinnale shook his head then almost in anger asked, "Do you have any idea what you're saying?"

"I do not say it without careful thought."

The man gave a scoffing laugh. "I would hope not." He turned his back on Legolas once again, trying to get everything straight in his mind. "What exactly are you asking of me and my men?" he eventually asked.

"Your allegiance."

"Yes, and what would that consist of?" the man persisted with a dash of impatience.

"Standing at Aragorn's side no matter what, teaching him, protecting him against all those enemies he is bound to make and, in time, following him as your king."

The man laughed breathlessly, saying, "That is a big ask."

"I know."

"And what would you give us in return for our allegiance?"

"A king."

Kinnale shook his head and laughed nervously again. "What you're asking is…it is an enormous ask, you must see that." This time Legolas merely nodded his head, knowing he could do nothing more to convince the commander of the Rangers. Now all he could do was wait for the man's decision. "To place all of our faith in one so young, in a mere child, is…I don't know. How can you be certain that the boy will succeed?"

"I cannot be certain," Legolas told him honestly.

"Great."

"All I know is that, for the first time in a long time, we have a cause for hope."

"A very small hope."

"That is more than many of us have had in a long while."

Kinnale shrugged in vague agreement but then pointed out, "Even if Aragorn's heritage is what you say it is, it is a big risk. The line of kings is said to have been weakened since Elendil; people would not have the faith in it they might once have had."

"They can be convinced. He will prove himself to them. He is not like Isildur; he is so much more." Looking deep into the man's grey eyes – strikingly similar to Aragorn's, he noted – Legolas said with all sincerity, "I believe in him."

Kinnale sighed loudly then began pacing around Legolas. The Elf remained quiet, perching himself upon a half-destroyed wall whilst the man deliberated. It seemed ages until the Ranger at last ceased his pacing and looked up with steely determination at the Elf.

"He is truly of royal blood?"

"Yes," Legolas answered simply.

"And you honestly believe that Sauron can be defeated?"

"Yes."

The man nodded, as surprised as Legolas was by the complete certainty in his answer. "And you really do believe that Aragorn can change this world for the better?"

"I really do." Legolas pushed away from the wall, moving closer to the man. "He cannot do it alone. There is still much that he needs to learn - and much that you will need to do. Even restoring him to the throne will be no easy task. But together, Men united stand a chance and that is all we really need."

"The might of Mordor will rain down on this boy, you realise."

This continued to be the most troubling thought for Legolas. He did not worry so much for himself but Aragorn would be hunted for as long as the regime of Shadow continued and if they should fail to overthrow the Evil of the east then it would mean certain death for the child he had come to love.

"I do realise," he answered quietly nevertheless.

"And you are aware that I cannot guarantee you his safety, even with an army behind him?"

"I understand that. Aragorn is fully aware of the sacrifice he makes and he does so willingly for the good of Middle Earth. Neither of us, you must believe, entered into this task lightly. We have both considered the risks to ourselves and to those who help us. But we cannot do this alone."

Another long silence followed as Kinnale, rational and sensible man that he was, made absolutely certain in his mind that his decision was the right one. Then, at long last, he dropped his arms to his sides, straightened his back and breathed deeply.

"What do you want us to do?" he asked firmly of the Elf.

**To Be Continued…**


	26. All For Nothing

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**Thanks to everyone who dropped by to leave a review. I very much appreciate receiving them (especially as I have been plagued by the dreaded Writer's Block!) Anyway, here is chapter 26 for you. Enjoy.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 26 – All For Nothing**

Aragorn sat upon a pile of fallen bricks, his legs spread in front of him, watching the group of Men as they surreptitiously watched him in return. They did not seem overly wary of him or angry at his unexpected appearance amongst them; they merely seemed curious. And yet not one of them dared approach. Almost all of them bested him in size, weight and age and yet they would not take the initiative to ask about him and his guardian. Why, Aragorn did not know. Surely they could not be afraid of him. They looked fairly worldly; like they had seen much in their time in the Rangers. It didn't seem like they would scare easily. Not that Aragorn particularly wanted their attention. Men he did not know made him deeply uncomfortable and he had no wish to get involved with them if they might possibly pose a threat. So, he continued to sit in awkward silence waiting for Legolas' return and they continued to watch him.

His guardian was gone for almost two whole hours before at last Aragorn saw him walking back with the leader of the Rangers keeping pace at his side. It was impossible to tell the outcome of those two hours from either beings' demeanour though. Legolas looked neither especially happy nor overly disappointed but Aragorn expected nothing more from his taciturn minder.

The Rangers all leapt to their feet when their leader returned to the more sheltered part of the ruins, whether out of respect or curiosity as to what had transpired Legolas did not know or care.

Kinnale said nothing at first, simply looked at each one of his men in turn. Then his eyes came to rest on Aragorn, who moved slowly to stand next to Legolas in order to feel at least a little more protected.

"Sir, what…?" one of the men started to ask, the first brave enough to break the silence.

The commander held up his large hand to halt the question and any further ones from his people. He then walked slowly up to Aragorn, unreadable grey eyes never leaving him as he approached. The boy shifted uncertainly on his feet as he was scrutinised thoroughly by the tall Human. Only Legolas' firm hand settled upon his shoulder kept him from moving away under the curious attention. After a while though, Kinnale's weathered features softened and he stepped closer still to the nervous young man. Aragorn looked up at him, intimidated by his authority and physical height.

For a moment, the air turned tense and even Legolas, despite now being certain of the man's conviction, stiffened in readiness to defend Aragorn if the need arose.

However, Kinnale slowly reached out to take Aragorn's hand and shook it gently in greeting before bowing his head in respect to the young man.

"My lord," he greeted with a small smile filled with warmth and respect.

Aragorn looked up at Legolas with startled eyes but the Elven prince simply nodded calmly to him. He had suspected this. A little warning might have been nice though, Aragorn thought.

"You have our unswerving allegiance," Kinnale continued in a strong voice so that his fellow Rangers could hear, which of course caused murmurs of confusion and unrest amongst the surprised men. "To whatever end," he added more calmly, more sedately. It meant much to both Legolas and Aragorn, he could see and he nodded softly as if cementing his conviction in his own mind and in Legolas' eyes.

There was another long silence as Aragorn simply stared at the commander of the Rangers. Legolas did not intervene this time though – no matter how much his ward may have wished it – knowing that Aragorn must deal with this oath by himself. These were his people now after all.

"Thank you, sir," Aragorn eventually managed to squeeze out of his constricted throat.

Kinnale released his hand and stepped back, apparently expecting nothing more from this first meeting, then continued softly, "Your guardian has explained everything to me, all of your plans, and although they seem…wild to say the least, we will stand with you, my King."

This time the Rangers burst into a flurry of unrestrained questions and shouts of surprise and disbelief at the title their leader had just used with regard to the strange, shy young man new to their group.

Kinnale had no patience for such discord in that moment, however, and turned sharply on them to shout, "Silence! All will be explained to you shortly but for now we must see to our new friends; they are much in need of food and rest, it looks like."

Legolas protested at this, stepping forward again and reminded, "We ask nothing from you and your men, Kinnale."

"Nonsense. I will hear no protest. You must eat with us. We carry little but what we have is our honour to share with you."

This promised caused yet more looks of disbelief and plenty mumbles of protest amongst his Rangers but this time they were ignored completely. Kinnale had given the order, and in his mind they should need no more.

"Then we thank you," Legolas smiled, genuinely grateful for the offer.

The man smiled in return, cast one last strange look in Aragorn's direction then strode over to join his men, who still stood around in stunned silence.

"Some introductions are in order now, I think." Kinnale moved to one of the men stood at the front of the perplexed grouping and clapped him on the back, successfully bringing him from his thoughts with a start. "Janor – my second in command." The young blonde man nodded politely in greeting, pale green eyes shining kindly in spite of his obvious uncertainty about the pair.

Kinnale moved on then to a slim, dark-haired man, shorter even than Aragorn, and introduced him as, "My tracker, Kalub. And my chief scout, Tarsem," he then said of a tall, red-haired man. "And this," he continued with a broad smile as he slung one arm over the shoulders of a young man, easily the youngest amongst them, "is my son, Ciaran." The child – and he was a child, sixteen years at the very oldest – bore a striking resemblance to his father, although he lacked the height and muscle of the older man.

"A pleasure to meet you all," Legolas smiled thinly at them as Aragorn once again discreetly moved to partially hide behind him, letting him take the lead again. Given his ward's past unpleasant experiences with the race of Men it was perhaps not surprising that he was anxious now to be stood amongst so many of them. For now, Legolas did not mind being placed front and centre if it smoothed the way with the Rangers. There would be plenty of time to persuade Aragorn to warm to these men later when things had settled down some. "I have no doubt that your men are curious to know of your decision, Kinnale, and you have much to explain to them. This will no doubt be easier without our presence to confuse things. We will go to fetch some wood for your fire whilst you talk," Legolas told the commander, his hand going to Aragorn's shoulder blade in preparation to usher him away from the camp.

"I thank you, Prince Legolas." Another murmur rose up amongst the Men at the title being used now by their leader. And although Aragorn felt Legolas flinch at its use, the Elf made no protest even though it was clear to Aragorn that he still despised the use of it as much as he had done when Erestor had insisted upon using it in Rivendell. "The time would be much appreciated; there is indeed a lot to discuss."

Legolas nodded then applied a small amount of pressure to his back in order to move Aragorn forward. "Come, Aragorn."

They left the campsite amidst the ancient ruins of Amon Sul to walk the same path that Legolas had led Kinnale down for privacy earlier. As soon as they were out of earshot of the Rangers, Aragorn asked eagerly of his guardian, "So, what did he say?"

"You just heard: he swore allegiance to you."

"But there must have been more. He must have had questions, concerns."

"He did."

"And?"

"And nothing. I answered them all as truthfully as I deemed necessary and he agreed to aid in our cause."

"That's it?"

"Yes." Legolas glanced briefly across at him, an odd look coming to his eyes, unreadable before turned his gaze back to the path and quickened his pace down the hill seemingly to escape the boy's understanding.

Aragorn's steps faltered for a moment, however. Something just didn't feel right about this. "You're lying," he accused suddenly and rather more harshly than he'd intended, jogging after the Elf to catch him up.

"I beg your pardon?" Legolas whirled on his charge in anger at the accusation.

"You heard me! I can always tell when you're concealing something from me; it shows in your eyes."

Legolas sighed heavily but didn't take the bait as Aragorn had hoped he would. Instead, he turned on the spot and strode away, effectively affirming that what Aragorn accused was true. He missed so much the days when he could easily outpace the young Aragorn in order to escape the curious child entrusted to him. Now though Aragorn could effortlessly keep up with him. There was no escape from the young man's questions. "You have your army, Aragorn; that's all you need to know."

"Not _my_ army. This was your idea; this is your plan, not mine. It's _your _army, Legolas. I never had a say in the matter if you recall."

"But you…you wanted this!"

"No! Y_ou _wanted this."

"_Me?_ If I had my way, we would never have left the Old Forest Road. _You_ wanted to leave. _You _wanted more."

"Yes, I may have wanted _more_, but never _this_! Going to war against the greatest known force on Middle Earth and all that can help us is an unruly band of twenty Rangers who can't even secure a camp properly, and a washed-up, exiled prince!"

Breathing hard through his anger, fists clenched tightly at his sides, Aragorn stood directly before his loyal guardian fuming, longing for Legolas to retaliate, to come up with some hateful, resentful retort that would provoke him even further, making his anger entirely justifiable. But Legolas, blue eyes oddly softened by the thoughtless words shouted at him, simply stared down at the young man before him, not angry but, worse, hurt.

Slowly, Aragorn felt the heat of his anger cool and guilt swept into its place. He opened his mouth to speak, to beg forgiveness but before the words could come, a reluctant voice came from behind him and he span angrily to see Kinnale waiting awkwardly a few feet away.

"I'm sorry; I'm interrupting," the man apologised realising what he had just walked in on.

Again Aragorn went to speak but Legolas beat him to it, replying softly, "Not at all." He walked past his open-mouthed charge without further comment.

"My men would like to meet you both properly."

Legolas glanced back at Aragorn as he walked, then said, "Of course."

Without waiting for the boy to follow, Legolas made his way back up the hill and Kinnale caught up with him quickly, shooting Aragorn a curious look over his shoulder to where the boy remained watching them go, appearing slightly stunned himself.

"Everything alright?" the Ranger asked, attempting nonchalance, as he strode along with Legolas.

"Fine. He'll catch us up."

"Right."

After almost five minutes of trying to work out what had just transpired between him and his normally level-headed guardian, Aragorn traipsed slowly back up the slope towards the ruins of the great Watchtower where the Rangers and Legolas were now gathered around a fire over which was hung a pot of boiling water. When he came into their sight, all but the Elf leapt to their feet in such haste that hot water was spilled from the cups they held and a string of curses that Aragorn had never heard before in his life were uttered before guilty silence fell again over the group.

One man, Aragorn vaguely recalled him being named by Kinnale as the second in command Janor, finally took the initiative and asked his superior in a low, uncertain voice, "Do we have to bow or something?"

"Uh…" The Ranger seemed unsure himself and looked first to Aragorn who could offer him no answer as he stood nervously in front of the gathered men and then to Legolas who more helpfully shook his head. "No," Kinnale replied now certain.

"Thank the gods for that!"

"But be respectful," Kinnale reprimanded sharply.

"Yes sir."

Another awkward silence descended over the ruins. All the Men involved grew increasingly uncomfortable through the quiet. Legolas made no effort this time to rescue Aragorn; pointedly, it seemed, refusing to interfere. Aragorn resented him a little for that, although he knew deep down that it was not done out of malice but rather because the Elf had been deeply hurt by his earlier sharp words, so perhaps it was forgivable.

"Aragorn," Kinnale announced unnecessarily loudly to break the tense hush. "I'm sure we'll all be on our best behaviour around our two newest friends."

Nods of agreement came from most of the men, although still none of them proved brave enough to approach the nervous young man that moments ago Kinnale had astoundingly dubbed 'future King of Men' before them.

Kinnale quickly grew uncomfortable with the quiet – Legolas mused that all Men must be equally desirous to keep the conversation flowing rather than to simple bask in the wonderful reflective silence that the Elves had always respected so much when they walked the earth – and became the only one amongst them brave enough to again break the silence. "Come and sit, Aragorn, and have something to eat with us."

It broke the ice between them and Aragorn nodded gratefully, letting the man lead him through the other Humans to the fire. He took a place on the opposite side of the fire to Legolas but the Elf bowed his head to the ground to purposefully avoid his gaze. Really the young man wanted nothing more than to pull his guardian aside so he could apologise privately for his earlier cruel words. However, it was not to be as he was almost immediately surrounded by Rangers, all suddenly eager to get to know him now that their leader had shown friendship towards the young man.

Seeing Aragorn fairly happily engrossed with his own kind, Legolas got to his feet, picking up his bag containing all his weapons. As he passed by a smiling Kinnale, he gripped the man's arm and said softly, "Make sure that he eats something."

"Where are you going?" the Ranger asked, turning to the guardian of their future king.

"To patrol the perimeter. I'll return before nightfall."

"You know we have men to do that," Kinnale called after him but Legolas either didn't hear him or was ignoring him, as he strode purposefully away.

Aragorn desperately wanted to follow after Legolas but he doubted he would get past the crowd of Rangers before the Elf disappeared. So, he settled for simply listening to the Men, his disappointment at Legolas' leaving him again having to take a back seat for the time being.

Night fell on the Rangers' camp but whilst the other men laid down to sleep after their rather satisfying meal, Aragorn reclined on his back on the stone ground, remaining wide awake in spite of his continued efforts to doze off. The source of his sleeplessness lay with his guardian. Legolas had still not returned from his patrol around the hill and his absence was making Aragorn increasingly anxious with every passing hour.

Sighing in resignation, Aragorn sat up, shoving his blanket off himself in annoyance that he had finally been forced into giving up trying to sleep. His mind was simply too busy to rest now. So instead of torturing himself trying futilely to get to drift off, he got up, stepping softly around the men laid out on the ground, covered in their own blankets, oblivious to the sleepless one moving amongst them.

"Big day for you, eh?"

Aragorn startled at Kinnale's booming voice breaking the deep quiet and he looked to the fire before which the Ranger was sat. Recovering himself, Aragorn answered haltingly, "Uh, yes, I suppose so."

The older man smiled knowingly. "Yep."

Aragorn glanced again out into the darkness beyond the camp then turned back to Kinnale and asked, "Has Legolas come back yet?"

"Not yet. I'm sure he'll return soon. He doesn't seem like the type to stay away for long."

"I made him angry. I said some things…"

"Parents always forgive the harsh words of their children," Kinnale told him dismissively, reaching for a flask at his side. "Drink?" he offered Aragorn, holding out the flask.

"Thank you." Aragorn took the small flask and, without even thinking what he was doing, took a long drink. The potent liquid burned his throat and chest as he swallowed and he found himself choking and spluttering in the aftermath of the – not entirely unpleasant – feeling.

Kinnale reached over and patted Aragorn helpfully on the back, laughing deeply at the response the liquor had provoked. "Your first real drink?" Aragorn nodded, swallowing another cough. "It's the men's homemade liquor."

"It's nice," Aragorn gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he passed the flask back to Kinnale. "And Legolas isn't my father."

"He behaves like it."

Aragorn scoffed in semi-amusement. "He really doesn't. Sometimes I actually think he hates me. And the thought of me being his child would probably send him spiralling into depression."

"Nah, I don't see hatred in his eyes when he looks at you."

"No? Then what do you see?"

"I see great compassion."

"You think?"

"I _know_. Take it from a father." He took a swig from the flask of strong alcohol, not so much as flinching at its strength. "If he didn't care for you then he wouldn't be here. Anyone who is willing to take the kinds of risks he has obviously taken is not doing so for someone he cares nothing about."

"When he rescued me from the Orcs as a child I don't think he ever imagined his life would change so much. He didn't know what he would have to give up."

"But it's all for the best."

Aragorn nodded, discreetly wiping at his eyes, which glistened slightly, both from the aftereffects of the alcohol and the renewed emotion. "I just hope he thinks so."

Kinnale patted Aragorn's shoulder with a strong hand. "Don't worry, child. Say your apologies and put it behind you." The man stretched out his long limbs, then, after snatching up the flask, got to his feet, declaring, "I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Aragorn. Don't stay up too late; we leave early in the morning."

"I'm just going to wait for Legolas to return."

The man nudged Aragorn's arm and the boy turned his head to see the flask being held before his face. "To keep you warm while you wait."

Smiling, Aragorn took the proffered flask and then Kinnale left him alone to his thoughts. He turned his gaze back out to the darkness, his mind set upon waiting for his mentor to return to him before he went to try to sleep again. He sat there for a full hour before he started to grow restless and began tracing his fingers up and down the cool metal of the flask given to him by the human Ranger. He idly unscrewed the top and lifted the flask to take another drink without even thinking.

"You shouldn't drink that poison."

Aragorn startled, spilling some of the potent liquid down the front of his jacket at the sound of his guardian's voice before him. He ignored the spillage, however, and leapt to his feet. "Legolas! You're back."

"Yes." The Elf dropped his pack to the ground then held out his hand for the flask of alcohol.

Without hesitation, Aragorn handed it over with the assurance, "I didn't drink any of it."

Re-screwing the top without bothering to check its potent contents, Legolas sternly noted, "I can smell it on your breath."

Dipping his head at being caught both drinking the draught and lying to his guardian, Aragorn made no further argument. Instead asking of Legolas, "Are you alright?"

"Of course I am."

"You were gone a long time."

"I merely walked around the hill," Legolas told him somewhat shortly.

"The Rangers saved you some food; it's been near the fire so it's still warm." Legolas nodded but made no attempt to move towards the fire to retrieve it. "They're quite good cooks actually," Aragorn laughed awkwardly, hoping the quip might ease the tension. Legolas did not crack a smile, however. "Shall I get you some?"

Legolas' eyes shifted around the campsite, raking across the sleeping Rangers, then he told the boy, "Someone should keep watch tonight."

As soon as the Elf began to walk away, Aragorn stepped in front of him to prevent him from leaving again and offered, "I can keep watch." Perhaps if he could make up for his earlier words then things would improve between them.

The Elf, however, was not going to make it that easy for his Human ward. "Get some sleep; we've a long way to go tomorrow."

Before Aragorn could protest, Legolas turned his back on the dejected young man and left the main site to take up a position for the watch on the outskirts of Amon Sul. Suitably rejected by the Elf he so looked up to, Aragorn walked wearily back to where he'd laid his blanket down and settled on it for a night of broody sulking over the bad atmosphere he had created between them.

**OIOI**

The rank, stale air hung heavy, cloying around him – so much so that he could hardly stand to breathe it. The black ground was hot beneath his feet as if a fierce fire raged just beneath the bare, tortured surface. All around him were rivers of molten fire, flowing rapidly through cracks and channels in the earth, steam rose to the dark sky above nearly burning him in its intense heat.

And yet despite the landscape, he felt he saw beauty here. Cruel, horrible, macabre beauty. Carefully, he stepped over the molten fissures in the ground, avoiding the dangers that the fiery liquid landscape presented, and made his way towards the source of the throbbing power pulsing relentlessly through his entire being. His feet moved of their own accord even as fear grew in his heart as he steadily approached the towering black fortress from which the enticing energy emanated. He didn't want to enter this place, for surely such power could only be forged by the Shadow, and yet he could not stop himself.

As he proceeded through the enormous black, metal-studded doors, he felt a sudden weight resting atop his head and he shakily raised his fingers to caress the familiar metal of the crown of Gondor. It felt strange, out of place and yet at the same time as if it had always been there. It was a symbol of what he was: the hope of the world and despite its odd familiarity it was a heavy burden to have to bear alone.

His feet sounded terribly loud in the vast hollow entrance to the Tower of Shadow, fortress of Sauron the Deceiver, Barad-dur, for that was where he now stood; it was unmistakable even to one who had never before set foot inside. He was afraid but he drew on the courage resting dormant in his heart to make his legs continue to move, propelling him forward to whatever end awaited him.

The stench of Evil was near unbearable as he drew closer to the epicentre of the immense power that drove the army of Shadow and he found himself almost gagging, choking on it. Clamping his hand over his mouth, he continued onwards, now acutely aware of the heavy, reassuring weight of Anduril in his hand. The weapon of kings thrummed in his hand with its own, very different power, and he felt its cold longing to shed Enemy blood – or perhaps that came from him and not the blessed but inanimate metal of his blade re-forged.

Power reeking of Shadow suddenly receded from the torch-lit corridors of the Tower of Sauron and he found himself momentarily able to draw breath, only for it to be replaced by a crushing feeling of horror and sorrow. The emotion stopped him in his tracks and his hand moved from his mouth to instead rest above his heart, which beat wildly in his chest. Terror undiluted gripped him. He turned instinctively to his right where stood a small wooden door; unassuming for sure and yet he feared what lay in the room beyond. Did the Master of Darkness himself reside beyond that thin plank of wood? Was the foul, rotten heart of Mordor really so close at hand?

As he reached out for the handle, he did not feel compelled to ready Anduril for battle. No, what awaited him was not a test of his battle skill but rather a test of the strength of his heart. It frightened him that his soul might not be strong enough to withstand whatever abhorrence lay inside that room, for no matter what power he yielded, that was an ever-fragile thing.

Turning the handle hesitantly, he pushed open the door and immediately recoiled, retching at the foul stench. Crashing into the wall opposite, he doubled over, his sword clattering to the stone floor and choked on the smell of decay and evil.

Straightening out with renewed determination, he stepped once more up to the door, Anduril lying forgotten on the floor. This time he did not shrink away, his morbid curiosity over-riding his disgust. He had to see what waited for him in the room.

The door creaked as it swung on ancient hinges but opened smoothly nonetheless to reveal the horrors beyond.

The floor was painted red with fresh blood; it covered every flagstone, every wall. A massacre had occurred here. Piled on either side of the small room were countless bodies, some fresh and bloody, others already rotting, and Aragorn felt his legs tremble unsteadily beneath him. Bile rose up in his throat but he resisted the queasy feeling, swallowing thickly.

Placing one foot boldly over the threshold, he very nearly slipped on the slick stone. He grasped the door jamb for support then tried again, more slowly this time. Soon he was steadily, and carefully, making his way along the path between the two piles of bodies. Most of the corpses were indistinguishable, their faces ripped apart or completely torn away by some force of evil. The only thing identifying them at all were the black tunics emblazoned with a silver tree crowned with seven stars – unmistakeably the emblem of Gondor. These poor souls were Men; Rangers, Aragorn knew instinctively. His own people.

Aragorn paused when he glimpsed the faces of Men he recognised. Lying amongst the slaughtered were the leader of the Rangers of the North, Kinnale, and his young son. The loyal scout and tracker lay nearby, their bodies torn apart, yet their faces remained intact as though to purposefully torment him with their identities.

Dizziness assailed him and he desperately fought back the darkness that crept towards the centre of his vision; he didn't want to end up lying unconscious amongst the rotting slain. That thought very nearly broke him and he again clamped his hand over his mouth. He wanted to close his eyes, to escape all this horror but he found that he could not.

Continuing along his path, Aragorn headed now for the door on the other side of the room, praying that it did not conceal further nightmares.

Before he could reach the door though, his feet slid underneath him and he crashed to the floor, hands bracing him from falling on his face even though his fingers slipped in the blood. In disgust, he reached up and grasped the handle and wrenched the door open, hoping beyond hope to finally escape the horrors of the Dark Lord's tower.

Beyond the room of blood and death lay something infinitely worse.

He hung in the centre of the otherwise completely bare room, heavy chains were cuffed to wrists, which had been chaffed and cut by the rusting metal all the way to the bone. His thin chest heaved with every breath, the slash wounds that ripped apart his skin tearing painfully with the motion. Blood trickled down his body, dripping from the broken toes that only just scraped the floor. His head was bowed, chin resting on his chest, eyes bruised and closed, lips pale and open partially as he breathed in deeply in spite of the pain the necessary action must have caused.

His eyes wide and filled with tears, the man climbed to his knees and shuffled forwards, one hand stretched out towards the pitiful figure.

"No," he breathed shakily. "No. No. Not this. Please not this."

Bright blue eyes blinked open at the sound of his voice and pale lips parted further as if he wanted to speak, but no sound came so instead the injured, naked being simply shook his head helplessly, a pitiful figure rendered mute by pain.

"Please no." He climbed to his feet having to grasp the door to pull himself upright and keep himself that way. "I'll get you out of here." Determination set grey eyes. This could not happen. Not now. Not to his guardian of all people. He needed the Elf. Selfish desire and sheer horror gave him strength renewed.

"No!" the blonde Elf ground out through his broken jaw, thick blood dripping from between barely parted lips to slide down his chin and join the vast pool that had formed on the floor at his toes.

Ignoring the mumbled warning, he stumbled into the room anyway and reached for the blood-slickened chains that bound the thin chaffed wrists of his long-term mentor but before he could proceed in attempting to free them the flat side of a sword was slapped against his knuckles and he withdrew quickly in the face of the shadow-creature garbed entirely in black who now towered over him menacingly.

Stumbling backwards in an effort to escape, he almost fell against the being that now stood in the doorway waiting for him and he cried out in horror.

"Elessar," the huge, dark figure hissed a word he did not understand.

"Who are you?" Aragorn asked in a trembling voice as he fought not to run into the far corner of the room and cower like a child until the creature went away.

"You know."

And he did know. The being reeked of decay and malevolence and his identity was undeniable even to one who had never before set eyes upon him.

Before him stood the ruler of Middle Earth – murderer, dictator, tyrant: Sauron. He was afraid, so afraid that he found he could hardly breathe. But this was what he had come here for, was it not? Confrontation of the Evil he despised so greatly.

"Release him," Aragorn commanded of the Dark Lord.

"Your guardian?"

"Yes. Let him go free."

The black figure cocked its hooded head to one side in question and asked aloud, "If I consent to do as you ask, to release this one precious to you, will you join me, Elessar, join my ranks in the Black Lands?"

He hardly needed to consider it. The answer slipped from his lips without hesitation or thought. "Yes." Ripping the heavy crown of Gondor from his head, he threw it at Sauron's feet, noting for the first time that a black-gloved hand already gripped Anduril tightly. Now the Dark Lord had everything. "Take me in his place, I beg you."

Although he couldn't see beyond the vast black hood, he imagined Sauron smiling underneath. The Dark Lord bent in a stiff movement to pick up the crown then turned his head towards the towering creature still lurking in silence behind where Legolas remained chained. With one single nod, one unspoken command, the Wraith raised its enormous sword and pierced straight through Legolas' unprotected heart.

The prince's final scream mingled with Aragorn's. Both had been betrayed. Aragorn, the hope of Mankind had surrendered to the Shadow. And all for nothing.

**To Be Continued…**


	27. Welcome Home

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks so much to all those still reading and for the reviews. Here's a brand new chapter for you to peruse. Enjoy.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 27 – Welcome Home**

The sleepy hush of the camp was split by an ear-piercing cry and immediately the Rangers woke at the harsh sound, reaching for their weapons to confront whatever danger was surely now upon them. However, despite their smoothness and speed perfected from many such actions in the past, it was Legolas who found and reached the source of the disturbance first. He raced nimbly around the Men, dropping his white knives as he fell to his knees at Aragorn's side. The boy thrashed wildly beneath the blanket, struggling with unconscious violence as Legolas' hands reached to cease his frantic movements.

"Aragorn!" he called loudly as he tried to restrain the man, made strong through his fear. "Wake." Shoving at the Elf, fingers automatically curling around his guardian's shirt as though he could offer protection through the veil of sleep, Aragorn made no other response but to throw his head back and scream as though in searing agony. "Aragorn, wake now!" His calls had no effect, lost in the screaming and the darkness of the nightmare Aragorn found himself trapped inside. So Legolas changed tact. He laid his hands on either side of his ward's tear-stained face, leaned in close and commanded softly, "Come back to me, child."

The Elf's words, spoken achingly gently through the commotion, had better effect than his cries could ever have done and suddenly Aragorn gasped loudly, his eyes snapping open as he woke, wide in terror at what he had witnessed in the darkness of his dreams. He sat up abruptly, forcing the Elf to make a rather hasty retreat backwards in unison. He fell then into Legolas' already open arms, face pressed deeply into Legolas' chest where he felt safe, protected. The scream that continued into the waking world, still loud and unrestrained, became muffled by the fabric of his guardian's shirt and jacket. Stiff fingers clawed at Legolas, clenching tightly as he cried, eyes squeezed tightly shut in the hope of banishing the images seen in the night, of securing some semblance of control over himself.

Legolas laid his hands gently on Aragorn's trembling back, concerned that the young man had not yet ceased his worryingly howling and by the shakes that rattled his thin body. What could possibly have upset his ward so much? Rubbing his back soothingly, Legolas leaned in closer to the man, whispering, "Shh, it's alright now. You are safe here."

"Legolas?" Kinnale asked of the Elven prince, taking an uncertain step towards them, his hand still resting on the pommel of his sword, wary of danger that may still have been lurking within the Human camp.

Glancing down at the boy, crying and trembling in fear against him, Legolas stroked the dark curls atop his head then turned back to the startled Rangers gathered before them, watching in interest. "All is well," he told them in a voice meant to reassure. Any demons on Amon Sul this night could not be defeated by a sword but rather by warm comfort. The Rangers had nothing to fear.

Gently he then prised Aragorn away from him a little way and the man lifted his head, frightened grey eyes drinking in the comforting sight of Legolas' face softly lit by firelight. Legolas rubbed his thumbs gently over Aragorn's cheeks, brushing at the tears that continued to stream freely.

Moving his hands down to rest on the young man's arms, Legolas said softly, "Come; let us move somewhere more private." He got smoothly to his feet, keeping hold of Aragorn's hand and tugging on it when he made no move to stand himself. "On your feet," he commanded, knowing that the young man would respond to firm instruction. And indeed, with Legolas' support, he climbed up, embarrassed now at being watched by so many as he struggled to gain his balance. Unfazed, the Elf laid his hand on Aragorn's back to lead him away from the others.

On his way past, Legolas snatched up the flask of water, then led Aragorn out into the darkness, to the site of their own smaller camp the night before meeting the Rangers.

"Sit," he told his ward, pushing him down gently to sit on one of the now familiar crumbling stone walls. He uncorked the flask of water then held it out for Aragorn to take. "Drink this." As he raised the drink to his lips, Legolas noticed how Aragorn's hands still continued to tremble dreadfully. For a long while, they sat in silence, Aragorn breathing erratically, even as he tried to calm himself, and Legolas watching him through the poor light just about reaching them from the Rangers' fire.

When at last the young man had calmed sufficiently, Legolas, crouched on the ground before him, asked, "What haunts your dreams, Aragorn? What upsets you so?"

Aragorn opened his mouth as if to speak but when the words failed to come he settled for just shaking his head in response.

"Talk to me, Aragorn. You can tell me anything. What did you dream?"

Shaking his head again, Aragorn managed to choke out a reply this time. "Not a…dream. Something far more…real."

"A premonition?" Legolas asked with a concerned frown. Never had he imagined that his young ward would suffer from visions of the past or future. Such things were usually reserved for the Blessed and although Aragorn did have the blood of the Firstborn within him, Legolas could not have anticipated that it would be strong enough to allow for such a gift to emerge. If it had indeed been a premonition.

"I don't know." Aragorn answered, still sounding breathless and tearful. "But it felt so_ real_."

Even though he understood from the boy's distress that even in wakefulness the horrors yet lingered in Aragorn's mind, Legolas felt he had to ask about them, to learn what this child destined for great things had seen. He asked kindly so as not to push his ward once more over the brink of panic, "Tell me what you saw and ease your burden, child."

Aragorn was quiet for a long time, gathering his thoughts together before he even attempted to speak of his nightmare to his guardian. And Legolas allowed the silence, waited patiently for his ward to be ready to speak. After all, he knew all too well of the difficulties of facing the things that haunted the mind.

When he did finally start, his voice was so quiet that had Legolas not possessed the superior hearing of the Elven race, he feared he would have struggled to catch what was being said. "I dreamed of…of _him_, of Sauron." Aragorn paused to let this revelation sink in, half expecting Legolas to demand that he speak no more of such darkness, or perhaps for the Elf himself to fall into panic. But although the prince's eyes did flash briefly with concern and he visibly tensed, he nevertheless nodded for the man to continue and, somewhat more at ease at Legolas' lack of alarm, Aragorn did just that. "I was in a tower in the Black Lands where _he _dwelt. And there was a room, piled with the dead, the Rangers of the North." He swallowed thickly at this particularly vivid memory, lowering his gaze when Legolas' eyes again shone with concern for him. Shuddering, he continued, "And…you were there also."

"Go on," Legolas prompted the man to keep going when he struggled with the words.

"_He_ had you, was…was hurting you and…he told me that you would die at his hands."

At this, Legolas moved quickly, getting up to sit beside Aragorn on the wall. Laying his arm across his charge's stooped shoulders, he leaned in close. "That will never happen."

Aragorn gave a short snort of laughter and demanded, "How can you know that for certain?"

"Because I do."

Shaking his head, Aragorn looked down at his hands, stilled now that his shaking had ceased. "He offered me a choice: if I surrendered myself to his will then he would let you go free."

"Aragorn…" Legolas sighed in despair, having already guessed where this was leading.

"I did it, Legolas. I gave myself over to the Shadow to spare your life. But…but he deceived me. He took everything away from me and he killed you anyway," Aragorn cried, his voice breaking as he spat out the bitter truth.

"Listen to me, what you saw was a dream and nothing more. Nightmares do not come true, even those that seem so very real to us."

Aragorn shook his head firmly this time, looking once more to his mentor in renewed desperation. "You can't know that, Legolas. I surrendered to him and I didn't even think twice about what the consequences might be. What if…what if it all comes true? What if, when the time comes, I am too weak to resist?"

Legolas was silent for a moment, staring steadily into the frightened eyes of his young charge. He was quiet for so long that Aragorn began to wonder if perhaps he could think of no reassurance to offer and he suddenly became desperately worried that the Elf would do the most sensible thing and cut his losses whilst he still could, leaving the foolish young boy he had unwillingly rescued far behind and carry on with his miserable but safe life alone. Perhaps Legolas would return to the Old Forest Road near his devastated homeland where he had always seemed the most at peace to Aragorn. Or maybe return to be with his kin in Rivendell. Either way, Aragorn would not begrudge him it.

However, instead of running, Legolas rested his hands on Aragorn's, capturing the man's wandering, uncertain gaze.

"Aragorn," the Elf started with a small, enigmatic smile, "if the time comes when you must face that particular Evil, when you take a stand against the Shadow that hangs over these lands, I have not a single doubt in my mind that against it you will prevail. Despite a whole world indicating the contrary, over Darkness, Light will triumph and you shall be the one to facilitate such change. Regardless of my fate, of yours I am and always have been certain – or I would not have sacrificed so much for you."

Tears streamed freely down Aragorn's face as he absorbed his guardian's kind, sincere words, taking great comfort in them. "How can you have such faith in a world that you hate?" he asked shakily.

Frowning, Legolas corrected the boy's view, "I do not hate this world. If I did then how could I ever have found the heart to fight for its freedom as I have done all these years at your side? My adoration of this weakening world has bound me forever to it. I had the chance to leave once and I denied the call of the West and my own salvation."

Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, Aragorn cried softly, "And through me delivered yourself to damnation instead."

"I do not believe that."

"Then you do not trust me after all?"

"In you I trust. But dreams are convoluted and vague and never to be relied upon as fact. They lie. To walk down the path they would guide you can only lead to danger and despair." Aragorn seemed unconvinced by his assurances no matter how wise they may have sounded. "And if what you saw does indeed come to pass, then I trust you to do what if right. And I believe, without any doubt in my mind, that my fate, whatever it may be, is not of your making. I made my decision, Aragorn. I was influenced by no other. I alone must bear whatever consequences lie in my future."

Another quiet sob emanated deep from Aragorn's chest and he embraced his mentor tightly, burying his face in Legolas' shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

"Those words I spoke to you…"

"Already forgotten, child. Do not trouble yourself over something so small as my feelings; not when you have more important things on your mind."

"I do worry. You've given me everything and all I can do is hurt you in return."

Legolas rubbed the man's back soothingly. "Shush now. You owe me nothing, Aragorn. Let us forget all about this." He pulled back a little once more, wiping the tears from Aragorn's cheeks with long, pale fingers. "You must rest now."

Aragorn pulled his head away from Legolas' touch and whispered, "I cannot sleep. I do not wish to."

"Perhaps you do not wish it, but you _must_."

"When I woke, I did not expect you to be at my side. I thought you might have left me to the Rangers; rid yourself of my keeping for good."

"I would never do that; as you ought to know by now. I was close by, as I always will be."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Aragorn told his guardian sternly.

"This is one promise I fully intend to keep," Legolas smiled easily - infuriatingly easily in Aragorn's eyes. He then released the man and got up from the wall. "We leave not long after dawn for the town of Men Kinnale deems a safe refuge, and you need to sleep in preparation for the journey." Aragorn rolled his eyes at the fussing words but he knew that in this Legolas would not relent. "Come back and sit by the fire."

"Can I not stay here tonight? I'm not sure I can tolerate being back amongst the Rangers just yet," the boy said, recalling the image of them stacked on top of one another in the blood-spattered room, slaughtered by the Shadow-creatures in Barad-dur.

Legolas' eyes drifted towards where the Men were, now all wide awake in the wake of the commotion caused by their newly discovered king, gathered around the fire, which had been stoked up, and were casting none too discreet glances in the direction of himself and Aragorn every now and then even though it was too dark to see much beyond the bubble of firelight. He could well understand the man's reluctance – all eyes would undoubtedly be upon him at his return amongst them.

"Very well," Legolas agreed. "Wait here; I'll fetch you a blanket."

"Thank you."

Smiling thinly at him, the Elf walked purposefully back to where the Men remained in the camp.

Upon his return, the Rangers hastily dispersed as if trying for the pretence that they had not been attempting to see and hear what was going on between Man and Elf in the darkness. Only Kinnale boldly remained where he was, waiting to speak with Legolas.

"How is he?" the commander of the Rangers asked when Legolas came close.

"He will be well. It was only a nightmare. Who among us has not suffered the horror of nightmares on occasion?"

"Indeed," Kinnale agreed quietly. He fell into silent reflection for a moment and Legolas took advantage of his pause to pick up Aragorn's blanket and pack from where they had been left on the ground. When he stood back up, the man was smiling at him.

By way of explanation, Legolas told the tall man, "For Aragorn. He wants some privacy for the rest of the night. We'll continue in the morning as usual."

"Very well." As the Elf walked away from him, Kinnale asked, "Will he be alright, Legolas?"

"Aragorn? He will be fine." Legolas smiled once more at him then turned, going back to his young charge. In his absence, Aragorn had managed to pull himself together some more and he actually managed to force a smile as his mentor approached. Legolas laid the blanket on the ground and told the man with some sternness, "Now you must rest."

The man nodded reluctantly. Although the sickening images conjured in the dark hours of his sleep had been somewhat quelled by Legolas' soothing words he had no wish for a repeat performance of those horrors. Remaining awake was by far the safest option but he doubted that Legolas would allow him to sit up for the rest of the night. So, he laid down and wrapped the threadbare blanket tightly around himself to ward off the chill. He would spend what remained of the night pretending to sleep simply to appease his mentor.

**OIOI**

**Five Days Later**

Aragorn found himself surrounded by more people than he had seen in one place in his entire life. Close at his side, Legolas seemed equally overwhelmed and discomforted by the bustling, noisy crowd of Men. Only the Rangers looked pleased for the exuberant welcome they received upon entering their hometown of Bree. Even Legolas and Aragorn, who were most certainly to be considered strangers, were welcomed as old friends returning home after long years away. They were congratulated and embraced by those lucky enough to have squeezed themselves to the front of the seething mass of people as they made their way through the streets and finally entered what Aragorn presumed to be the town's main tavern.

Drinks were thrust unceremoniously into their hands and Legolas immediately recognised the sickly smell of the potent alcohol Kinnale had offered Aragorn previously at their camp upon Weathertop, so he took the wooden goblet from the young man before he could even take a sip and returned both cups to the bar with a loud, irritated clunk.

When Legolas turned back around, an enormous man was stood before him, towering above even the tall Elf. Clad in leather and fur and bearing a heavy sword in his hand, the man glared down at the two strangers entering the tavern for the first time with no hint of the friendliness bestowed upon them by the town's other celebrating occupants.

"What has been brought among us?" the giant man demanded with such a thick accent that Legolas could hardly understand the deep, booming words.

"This," Kinnale stepped in with a small flourish to rescue the pair, "is Legolas and Aragorn, friends and the newest additions to our cause." The commander grinned broadly and patted the huge man fearlessly on the back, for which Legolas admired him somewhat. "And this," the commander then introduced to the two newcomers, "is Garlan. Do not worry yourselves; he is not as brutish as he appears on first sight."

"Good to know," Legolas murmured darkly to Aragorn.

"Come on, let's get you some food." Kinnale guided the pair away from the mass of people crowded around the rejoicing Rangers, and gestured to a free table at the very back of the establishment. Both sat down in wobbly, creaky wooden chairs with some reticence, looking anxiously around them as Kinnale returned to the bar, gratefully accepting the praise he received on the way through. It seemed he had been through this kind of chaotic homecoming before and he clearly enjoyed the attention.

"Legolas?" Aragorn asked in growing concern, leaning over the table so he could address his guardian with some small measure of privacy.

"I know," the prince agreed without any doubt whatsoever over what Aragorn was thinking. "Grin and bear it for now; we'll extricate ourselves as soon as possible."

Looking around himself, Aragorn muttered softly enough that only the Elf would hear, "I don't like it here."

"Me either."

Kinnale returned a moment later carrying three metal dishes on which sat a small block of cheese, an apple and a hunk of bread. Aragorn looked down doubtfully at the mostly unfamiliar food placed on the table before him – he had never seen any of the items presented to him before. When he looked to Legolas for reassurance though, the Elf calmly nodded that it was alright to eat and he curiously picked up the small round fruit, bringing it to his nose to smell before taking a small bite. Sweet, juicy and surprisingly nice, he smiled in approval and took another, more hearty bite.

"How is it that you have perishable food?" Legolas asked, using his fingers to tear off a small chunk of fresh bread.

Swallowing down a large bite of his own food with no hesitation at all, Kinnale answered, "We have managed to plough and sow the fields around Bree, bringing them back from the brink. We keep a limited number of cattle for milk and have brought the orchards back to life as well. It wasn't easy, let me tell you, but there were a few farmers amongst us in the beginning and they built the land's crops up suitably well for our needs. Our crops are never excellent or plentiful but for a limited season they sustain us sufficiently. We store grain for the winter months or in case the crops fail, we preserve a little meat if we can."

"The crops fail often?"

"More often than we would like. But we are a frugal people and we get by with what we have," Kinnale smiled at the pair.

"And you remain untroubled by the allies of Shadow?" Legolas asked then, for surely such a successful population of Men could not fail to attract the attention of the forces of Darkness that patrolled the lands.

A shadow passed over the man's features and he lowered his food back to his plate slowly, as if remembering events past had stripped him of his appetite in an instant. "Not wholly untroubled," he finally spoke quietly, eyes lowered to the table, fingers idly picking apart the thick crust of his bread portion. "There have been attacks. Many lives have been lost, much property destroyed. But we are warriors and we did all necessary to protect our lands and our people. We are a small community, Lord Legolas, and I believe it is our apparent insignificance that has kept the forces of the Dark Lord at bay all these years."

"Insignificant?" Aragorn echoed in surprise. "But you stand against the armies of Shadow."

Kinnale took a long, fortifying swig from his tankard then nodded. "Yes, my lord, we do. But we work often in secret, killing only a small number of the Shadow's allies in order to protect those of good heart who still gather together in these fractured lands. We are indeed insignificant enough to avoid any serious assault on our small town."

There was a long, tense silence after that before Aragorn said softly, "But now…"

Legolas continued for him, "Our being here endangers your entire population, Kinnale."

The man nodded once more, thoughtfully, then grimly replied, "In a war, to do the right thing, sacrifices must be made."

Both Elf and boy were surprised by his candour and Aragorn looked from Kinnale around the small but bustling tavern, filled with men, women and children, visibly paling. "Excuse me," he said, abruptly standing up and fighting his way out of the building.

"Did I say something wrong?" the commander asked anxiously, straightening in his chair in order to watch the young man's retreat.

"Uh, no. I should go after him." The Elf got up with a flash of a smile to Kinnale and followed quickly after his ward.

After making his way through the crowds, earning some annoyed glares along the way, which he expertly ignored, Legolas shoved the door open and looked around to find Aragorn sat against the wall of the building, his head bowed in his hands.

"Aragorn?" Legolas called as he approached. "What are you doing?"

Not raising his head, the man answered quietly, "I shouldn't be here."

"Where?"

"_Here_, with these people."

Sighing in frustration at his lack of understanding, Legolas demanded, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Didn't you hear him?" Aragorn shouted angrily, at last raising troubled grey eyes to his mentor.

"Who? Kinnale?"

"_Yes_, Kinnale!" the man yelled, exasperated. "He practically said that my presence was going to kill all those innocent people in there!"

"He said no such thing!" Legolas exclaimed in return.

"Yes, Legolas, he did! 'Sacrifices must be made'," he quoted in a raised voice. "All those people are going to die and it's going to be my fault."

Realising all too well the guilt that rested upon the young man's shoulders, Legolas softened his approach and moved slowly to sit down next to him on the ground. "Whatever happens to those people it is in no way your fault. They will be targeted but doubtless they have been before and they have survived, prospered even, in spite of the constant threat. But you cannot quail from your duty, your birth-right, because you fear what may happen to them."

"They will look to me for leadership. My failures in that regard will be plain to see," Aragorn told him bitterly.

"And what makes you so certain that you will fail?"

Crying openly now, Aragorn demanded of his guardian, "How could I not? And even if by some miracle I do succeed, how many people will have to die in the process?"

"That is the price of war," Legolas told him with chilling calmness.

"Right," the boy scoffed, turning cold eyes on the Elf. "And it is I who must bear that on my conscience."

"You are a king, Aragorn. A king must bear much for his people. Yes, there will be casualties; many will have to be sacrificed along the way, but it will be for the greater good, for freedom."

"It's not fair."

Legolas smiled sadly, laying his hand on Aragorn's arm. "It seldom is."

The man wiped at his face with his sleeve and breathed deeply before asking, "You felt this way, when you were in charge of your people in Mirkwood?"

Shoving away the burning pain that welled up in his chest at the mere mention of his past and fallen home, Legolas answered the man's question with perfect honesty, "My father bore that mostly, but I know he felt each loss acutely. As a commander, one must be prepared to do the hard thing for the greater good. Under my various commands, hundreds and in the end thousands perished for the protection of their home."

"And you wish you had been among them?" Aragorn asked softly, resting his head against Legolas' shoulder, his eyes falling shut as he braced himself for the dreaded answer his guardian may give.

He was not disappointed as Legolas whispered under his breath, "Yes, I wish that."

Tears dropped from his eyes again and Aragorn breathed, "I'm scared."

Legolas laid his hand on the man's head and consoled, "I know. But I will be with you."

Aragorn sat up straight and stared imploringly into blue eyes filled with shadows. "You won't leave me, right?" he beseeched of his guardian and only friend.

The Elf summoned a thin smile to his lips. "I will not leave you. It will be you and me together against the Darkness – as ever." Aragorn seemed to relax somewhat at this last reassurance and he leant back against the wall. "However, right now we must return to our host. We may have his allegiance but to keep it we must remain in his good favour and that will not be done by running away from his generosity."

"I suppose," Aragorn sighed unenthusiastically.

"Believe me," Legolas said as he got up, "I feel much the same way."

Getting up to follow the Elf, Aragorn asked quietly, "You are weary?" Legolas smiled gently at him and made for the tavern door. "Me too."

Legolas chuckled and slapped Aragorn on the back to shut him up as he opened the door.

They fought their way back through the crowd to the table where Kinnale was still sat, now speaking with a large, pot-bellied man standing next to him holding a tray of drinks. Both looked up at the return of the boy and Elf. For a moment, Kinnale stared at them, uncertain if whatever had transpired had been resolved but then he smiled brightly.

"There's someone I want to introduce you to. This is Barliman, the publican."

"Nice to meet you, sir," Legolas smiled warmly, shaking the portly man's hand in the same manner as he'd seen the Men of Bree doing upon welcoming one another. "I am Legolas and this is my ward, Aragorn."

"I know who you are."

"Is that so?" Legolas asked as he and Aragorn took their seats again.

The man nodded the affirmative. "Kinnale here has been singing your praises."

"Has he indeed?"

"Not so much," the Ranger said defensively with a slight blush colouring his cheeks. "Anyway, do you have a room for these two or not?"

"You know I have. Any friend of yours…"

"Thank you," Kinnale called after the portly man as he walked back to the bar. After taking another glug of his drink, the Ranger continued, "There will be an open meeting tonight right here. I think everyone will come and you'd be wise to be in attendance also. Barliman has a couple of rooms prepared for you, so you can get cleaned up before this evening."

"A couple of rooms?" Aragorn asked him anxiously. He'd never stayed in a place like this before and he didn't like the idea of being alone during the night.

"That is very kind of you," Legolas said kindly, smiling at the man. Then he told Aragorn, "Finish your food."

Had he not been so completely famished, Aragorn would have miserably turned down the food in light of this latest revelation about their stay in the ever-surprising Bree, but instead he slowly finished off the unusual meal he had been given. Legolas too ate slowly, surprisingly finding little pleasure in the action.

Once they were done, Kinnale led them upstairs to one of several rooms that made up the top floors of the tavern. They were simple spaces with only one mattress in each but pleasant enough. Legolas supposed that Bree got very few visitors from other lands and that these rooms were primarily used for patrons who needed a warm place to stay after a night of too much indulgence. Still, they were kept in good condition, which was all that really mattered.

"Yours is just next door," the Ranger said to Legolas.

Smiling reassuringly at his ward, Legolas went out the door, closing it softly behind him. He knew that Aragorn would be fine by himself for a while so he went next door with Kinnale. His room was smaller than Aragorn's but that didn't bother him in the least. It was warm and dry – perfect for him and more than he could have expected.

"I'll come and get you when the meeting convenes."

"Thank you for your kindness."

With a final nod, Kinnale left and closed the door behind him, leaving Legolas to drop his bag to the floor and slump down on the mattress with a heavy sigh. He let his eyes fall closed and breathed deeply for a moment, uncaring that the mattress reeked of dust and earth. He was tired. So tired that he could collapse backwards and fall instantly into sleep but he knew that he should clean himself up before Kinnale dragged both him and Aragorn away to the village meeting.

Forcing his eyes open, Legolas shrugged off his jacket and shirt, shivering at the chill. Before doing anything further, his fingers probed at his injured shoulder. Gasping at the sharp stab of pain that shot through him at the touch, Legolas' fingers retreated. There was a bathroom just down the hall, Kinnale had informed him, so he kicked his shoes off and put his shirt back on then got up to head out to the bathroom. He was relieved that a bowl of water had been placed over the fire to warm up for he and Aragorn to wash with and he moved over to the basin, above which stood an ancient mirror. Given that his reflection made him queasy to look at, Legolas focused only on the wound on his shoulder.

It looked worse than the last time he'd bothered to examine it. Hot to the touch, it was beginning to show signs of infection now. That was what he had feared would happen. Using some of the warm water, he dabbed at the wound, caused by the filthy Orc dagger in battle some weeks ago, with a soft cloth, gritting his teeth as the pain flared.

By the time he was finished, he felt so disconcertingly lightheaded that he could do nothing but stumble back to his room and crash onto the mattress with a groan of pain.

The exiled Prince of Mirkwood had never been one to wallow in self-pity or injury, either pre- or post-War, and yet here amongst the safety of allies and feeling as utterly wretched as he did in spite of the relative comforts afforded him, he allowed himself to mope for a while. Laid on his front, half on the mattress, legs resting on the floor, Legolas fell into an unintentional, deep sleep.

But from the best rest he had enjoyed in many months, Legolas found himself shaken. Opening his eyes, Legolas turned his head to the side to find Aragorn peering at him.

"Are you alright?" the young man asked.

Levering himself up with his arms, having to disguise a wince as he did so, Legolas squinted at the boy. "Of course," he replied gruffly, his voice still gravelly from sleep. "What are you doing here?"

"Kinnale said the town meeting is to begin soon and we should make our way downstairs."

"Oh, the meeting." The Elf ran a thin hand through his hair and nodded. "Alright. I'll be right there."

"He brought us some clothes. They're a bit large but they're comfortable enough." The man patted at the neatly folded pile of clean clothing he'd placed on the bed.

"Thank you. I'll get dressed and meet you outside in a moment."

"Alright," Aragorn smiled tensely. He knew something was not quite right; he just didn't know what it was.

**To Be Continued…**


	28. Public Opinion

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 28 – Public Opinion**

"What have you brought amongst us?"

"Evil resides in the boy!"

"We should throw them out; leave them to their fates before they're discovered."

Everyone was speaking over each other, a great cacophony of complaints and protestations, making it nearly impossible to discern any one argument from the din. Only random fragments of shouting could be caught amidst the general noise, nothing that made any sense. Kinnale was coming under fire the most, for it had been he who'd just explained about his pledge to aid the future King of Gondor in his unlikely mission. Aragorn himself sat before the rows of angry or upset citizens of Bree, wishing that he was somewhere – _anywhere_ – else. Only Legolas' hand rested lightly on his arm kept him in place.

The Elf gazed calmly at the angry rabble cramped together in the small tavern before him whilst Aragorn fidgeted, as their anger was directed at him, longing to have his guardian's surety and air of confidence.

Slowly, Legolas got up from his seat, his hand lifting from Aragorn's arm. As the Elf took a step forward so he was stood at Kinnale's side, Aragorn fought the simultaneous urges to both grab hold of his mentor in order to stay close and run away.

"They don't appear to be taking it very well," Legolas commented quietly to the Ranger.

Kinnale chuckled at the understatement and agreed, "No, they don't."

"It is to be expected." Blue eyes swept over the crowd. It was by no means huge. Men, women and even the few children had been invited to hear what the commander of the loyal protectors had to say but even though the whole town of Bree was in attendance there were still fewer than a hundred in total. Even in this isolated harbour for mankind, few lived. It was not surprising to Legolas that these people were angry and fearful of the danger that had been allowed to intrude upon their veritable oasis in the desert of Sauron's evil.

"They'll calm down in a minute. Or at least run out of insults."

"Good to know."

Legolas slowly returned to his seat, shooting Aragorn a small smile as he did so. The boy looked thoroughly terrified by all the attention being directed at him. Unfortunately, this was necessary to endure and there was very little that Legolas could do to ease his discomfort. So, he sat and waited, hoping that Kinnale was correct in believing things would soon settle down.

It took longer than the Ranger had anticipated, however, for the room to fall quiet and for people to realise that shouting was not getting them anywhere. Kinnale smiled then shot an 'I-told-you-so' look back to Legolas, who simply nodded in an attempt to appear moderately impressed before the only champion he and Aragorn had.

"Now that everyone has gotten that out of their systems, perhaps we can have a more civilised discussion," Kinnale mediated calmly.

One man, young and tanned, stood and asked the first question, "Why have you brought them amongst us, Kinnale?"

"I believe I have already answered that – several times."

"Humour us and explain again."

"I would have thought it is glaringly obvious. He is of our kind, so he is welcome here, as we have welcomed many wanderers amongst us over the years."

"That," the man jabbed an accusing finger at Aragorn, "is no mere wanderer."

"No, _he_ is not," Kinnale agreed softly. "And that is all the more reason to protect him from harm. He is special."

"At what cost?" a middle-aged woman asked loudly, leaping up from her seat. "Given the danger he brings with him, is his protection really worth all our lives?"

Kinnale held up his hand to the crowd as murmurs of agreement threatened to develop into another round of yelling. In a sure voice, he told them, "It will not come to that."

"You can't know that, son. There are those among us who have seen first-hand the devastating effects of the Shadow," an elderly man called from the front row. He was sat with a young girl – perhaps his granddaughter, Legolas thought. Clearly his eyesight was not good as his eyes were clouded with cataracts and he squinted up at the tall commander, his face was scarred deeply, suggesting he had seen much of war in his long years. "And I, like every other soul here, have no desire to invite evil inside a haven that you yourself are charged with protecting, Kinnale."

"I understand that, Theo. It is a risk."

"That is putting it mildly," the young, tanned man grumbled.

"Listen, Aragorn is an ally to us. How many years have we lived in constant fear for the safety of our people and lands? At any moment, Sauron could decide to occupy this town and we would be left utterly defenceless. Now amongst us we have someone that the Dark Lord will fear himself."

"A child."

"At the moment. But in time, and with our help and our support, the boy will become a king. A king of our kind, who can do what we have ever failed at: unite our people under a single banner, give us strength yet again. The race of Men could be great, powerful and feared once more. Of that unity, I am certain Sauron will fear."

Silence reigned over the room as the people considered this.

"Listen, you have always trusted in us and we firmly believe that this is the right course."

It was true that the Rangers had not once led the people under the umbrella of their protection astray. Always had they done the best for those seeking sanctuary in Bree. How could they now ignore what the Rangers thought right?

**OIOI**

Aragorn laid awake in the darkness of his room. Laid on his back on the mattress, he stared up at the plain ceiling, unable to sleep despite the events of the busy day. His mind was whirling, making rest all but impossible.

From outside the thin wooden door of his room, Aragorn heard the floorboards creak gently. Too gently for human feet, he realised. As the door slid open, letting in a thin ribbon of torch light to glow on the young man's face, Aragorn closed his eyes tightly, hoping that feigning sleep would make the Elf go away. It wasn't that he didn't want his guardian with him but he just didn't want to see the sympathy that he knew would be present in that worried face, he didn't want to have to discuss the events of that evening. Surely Legolas would want to dissect every little word, every detail. But with his mind already so confused, Aragorn didn't think he could stand it. So he lied to his mentor.

Despite the ruckus caused by the protesters in the town meeting, the outcome had been favourable for Aragorn. Reluctant to the end, the people of Bree had nevertheless eventually put their trust in the Rangers and said that they would side with the future king despite all their lingering doubts. But Aragorn still did not feel comforted by the resolution. They did not trust him, or like him even. They only agreed because they loved the Rangers and Kinnale had stood up for him, put his reputation and his people's lives on the line. And now, Aragorn had yet another thing to live up to. He had to earn their confidence. And he just wasn't sure how.

Rather than retreat as Aragorn wished he would do, Legolas stepped into the room, pushed the door closed behind him and crept across the floor almost silently. A moment later, Aragorn felt him sit down on the edge of the mattress.

Legolas sighed heavily in the darkness, a lonely sound devoid of peace, then ghosted his fingers over the man's smooth forehead.

"You did well today, Aragorn," the Elf said in a soft whisper, very nearly inaudible even in the hush of Bree's only tavern. At first, Aragorn thought that perhaps Legolas was muttering to himself but then he continued in a manner which left the man in no doubt that he was indeed speaking to him directly. "I am so very proud of you…Your Majesty."

The words were said in a whisper and yet in Aragorn's ears as they echoed painfully loudly, stabbing through his heart and making it pound painfully against his ribs. By the time Aragorn opened his eyes and sat up in bed to ask Legolas about the use of the unfamiliar and deeply troubling title, the Elf had silently slipped from the room and he was left all by himself again. Suddenly feeling very alone, Aragorn leapt up, still tangled up in the sheets, and made a dash for the door.

Legolas was just climbing beneath his own sheets when Aragorn burst into his room. The Elf looked up in surprise. Neither spoke for a long moment, with both watching each other, not knowing what to say or how to break the silence.

With Aragorn at a complete loss for words, Legolas cleared his throat quietly and asked, "Are you alright?" The man nodded mutely, still standing in the doorway, clutching the sheets to himself. "Can you not sleep?" Aragorn shook his head, eyes frozen on Legolas. The Elf, calm as ever, nodded in understanding, attempting a smile. Aragorn wondered whether he'd known all along that he was awake and listening to what was being said or whether this was a genuine surprise to him. Either way, Legolas was not letting on.

"Am I keeping you up?" the man finally asked in a small voice, trembling with carefully restrained emotion.

"No," Legolas shook his head.

Another silence fell, but this time Aragorn's eyes dropped to the floor and, sensing something more the man wanted to say, Legolas kept his quiet.

"Can…can I stay with you tonight? I don't want to sleep on my own."

Despite the fact that in all honesty he had been immensely looking forward to sleeping one night alone and undisturbed in something very close to actually being a normal bed, Legolas nodded encouragingly, smiling, "Of course," unable to deny his ward anything. He shifted over on the mattress in invitation and without hesitation Aragorn moved over and laid down, hugging the thin covers around himself. For a moment, Legolas sat propped up, watching him in silence. "Try to get some sleep," he whispered to the man, tucking the other blanket around his charge.

Aragorn was no longer a boy, being almost twenty-six years old by now, an age few Men got to in the world where so much was against them. And yet to Legolas, a creature of thousands of years, Aragorn still remained little more than a child. Or perhaps, in his eyes, the man would never be considered anything but a child. Sat on the mattress, watching Aragorn as he drifted off into sleep, exhausted after his long and eventful day, Legolas thought he looked very much as the clueless boy he'd rescued all those years ago from the vicious Orcs intent on killing him and his father.

** OIOI **

For three long hours Legolas had tried, unsuccessfully, to fall asleep. Thankfully, Aragorn had managed to drift off after a while of tossing and turning and he now slept deeply, entirely undisturbed by his guardian's incessant insomnia. Sighing wearily, Legolas got to his feet with a wince and went to the window on quiet feet. Pulling the flimsy curtain back from the window, he peered out onto the street. Torches burned - lamps to light the road even though curfew was always in place after sundown and, as expected, the crowds attracted by the town gathering had long since dispersed and the night had fallen eerily still.

Unable to get any rest, Legolas crept out of the room, mindful not to disturb Aragorn. One of them, at least, should be able to get some sleep that night. Not troubled by the darkness, Legolas crept down the creaky staircase and pushed open the door to the bar area, which now was void of the bustling Men that had crowed the place earlier. He had absolutely no intention of downing any of the strong liquor the Men of Bree favoured whilst he was there but the peace and quiet the empty space offered was comforting.

He pulled up a chair from one of the empty tables and slouched down into it, rubbing his tired eyes.

"Can't sleep either, eh?"

Legolas startled at the sound of Kinnale's gruff voice behind him. Turning in his chair, Legolas made the man's bulky shape out in the darkness by the bar. "Uh, no, I can't. You?"

The man chuckled and propped himself up against the smooth wooden bar and Legolas guessed that after the town gathering he had helped himself and indulged in a little more alcohol than was good for him. "I tend to be restless when confined to Bree. I prefer to be in the open wilds." He grinned widely at Legolas then and added, "Truth be told, I think my wife prefers it too."

"You're married?" Legolas asked in surprise. "I mean, I knew you had a son but I didn't realise…" How little he really knew about this Ranger, Legolas mused.

"Yes, she lives here in Bree. I have a daughter here also. May, her name is. She'll be two years old next month." Legolas smiled at him graciously through the darkness. "What about you?"

"Excuse me?" Legolas asked with a cough of surprise.

"Are you married? Any children?"

A shadow flitted across Legolas' face at even the vague mention of family and he lowered his eyes to the table so that even in the dark Kinnale couldn't see the pain clouding his eyes. "No," the Elf finally answered. "No family. Not anymore."

"Sorry." The man came across the room, the soles of heavy boots loud on the creaking wooden floor, to sit down in the chair opposite the Elf. "Did you ever?"

"Have a family?" Legolas asked in a whisper and in the darkness he felt the man nod. For a while, he was silent and yet Kinnale waited with practiced patience. Clearing the emotion, thick in his throat, Legolas replied in a quiet voice, "A wife…two children."

"And they…?"

Shifting in his seat, Legolas nodded. "I pleaded with them to leave Middle Earth, to go West, but my wife refused, she wanted to stay with me, and she…" Voice trembling with emotion, Legolas shook his head, indicating he could not continue any further with this painful topic.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," the Elf choked out from his tight throat. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention any of this to Aragorn. I would prefer it if he didn't know."

"Sure. If you want." An awkward silence fell between them, which Kinnale took it upon himself to break again after mere moments. "We'll leave in a few days if you're still set on going to Gondor." Legolas nodded, grateful that the conversation had changed direction at last to a less painful topic than his troubled past. "Tomorrow I'll give you and Aragorn a tour of Bree; we're not a big town but we have put together a fair community here. There will be much to see."

"That would be much appreciated."

"Well, I'll leave you to it then," Kinnale said gently, getting to his feet.

"Goodnight, Kinnale."

Left alone again, Legolas laid his hands flat on the rough table top, concentrating on the scarred grain beneath his palms in an attempt to distract his mind. The quiet that he had craved earlier now proved a curse as he sat alone with just his thoughts for company in the dark. Memories of his past stirred in his mind, dredging up that which he desperately longed to forget but which he knew now would not fast settle due to Kinnale's disturbance.

Getting up, he made his way back to his room where Aragorn slept soundly. A part of the proud Elf longed to curl up in the chair and cry himself to sleep but that damned pride of his would not relent, even now in this darkest of hours. So, he sat upright in the chair – or more accurately on its edge – and watched his young ward sleep until the grey light of the dawn filtered through the thin curtains at which point he got up, ready for another long, tiring day.

**OIOI**

Aragorn was, once more, thoroughly overwhelmed. The whole day had been spent touring around the small town of Bree. He was both physically and mentally exhausted by the time Kinnale, aided by both his son, Ciaran, and Janor, the Rangers' second in command, had finished his extensive tour.

It had been an odd experience for the young man. He'd never set foot inside an actual town with multiple homes and commodities that were in constant use before and he found Bree both fascinating and a little frightening. Yet, he had paid close attention to all that he'd been told, listening intently to everything the Rangers explained to him and asking the appropriate questions when prompted to do so.

On the whole, the people of Bree had been welcoming enough – although Aragorn suspected this good will was more aimed at the returned warriors, respected as they were, rather than a supposed king, new and controversial amongst their tight-knit community. Some residents had openly glared at him as they had passed by whereas others boldly approached to meet him, curious about this child whom they'd been told the night before brought hope with him. They were a poor people, scratching out a meagre living from the wastelands they had to make do with and yet often they offered him food, which he always very politely declined, not wanting to take anything from their sparse stores for his own consumption, and praised their unnecessary generosity.

Much to his surprise though, Aragorn found that he actually enjoyed venturing out into the unknown of Bree. He found that he liked Ciaran's company especially and he was also growing rather fond of Kinnale with every passing day. At noon, they paused on the tour and stopped by the house where Kinnale and Ciaran, along with Kinnale's wife and young daughter, lived and were fed a good meal that Aragorn guessed was put on specially for him. They did not have much, the family, but they were willing, happy even, to share all that they did possess. Gathered around the roughly crafted table in the one large room in the house, they shared stories and laughed and Aragorn wondered if this was what it really felt like to belong to a real family, so filled with warmth and kindness. Was this what Kinnale and the other Rangers fought so hard for? Was this what he was missing?

The only thing that darkened Aragorn's day was his guardian. Legolas had sat with him at breakfast in the tavern but had only sullenly picked at the food on his plate. On the tour, the Elf had tarried behind them, seemingly paying little attention to anything the Rangers had to say about the township. He barely spoke a word to Aragorn, even when the man attempted to speak with him about what they had seen. Slouching sulkily behind the party, the Elf walked with his head bowed, seemingly lost deep in thought the whole time.

When the others went into Kinnale's home at midday, Legolas lingered for a while in the doorway regardless of the invitation offered to him, but soon disappeared completely, only to return to the doorway moments before they were about to leave. Still, not one word left those pale lips.

Aragorn wondered, as their day-long tour of Bree came to an end, if he had done something to anger or upset his sullen guardian, although Legolas did not speak to any other person during the day either so he obviously wasn't singling out Aragorn to ignore. He did not look angry, Aragorn reasoned as they returned to the tavern in which they would spend another night, but nor did he look at peace either and he certainly did not look as he normally did.

Once again Legolas rather impolitely excused himself from the evening meal, leaving Aragorn to mingle with the Rangers who had gathered in the bar area.

For a while, Aragorn sat with them, laughing at their risqué stories and smiling politely even though his mind was elsewhere the whole time. At the first possible opportunity, he slipped unnoticed from the bar and made his way upstairs to Legolas' room.

The Elf was sat in a hard-backed chair by the window watching the people outside come and go but he looked around when his sensitive ears picked up Aragorn's footsteps in the hall. He said nothing as his young ward entered and slowly closed the door after him then leaned back against it to stand and watch his guardian.

"Are you angry at me?" Aragorn eventually asked blunt question in a low voice. "Have I done something to make you mad?"

Legolas seemed startled by the question, frowning. "No. Why would you ask that?"

"How about because you've barely said a word to me all day?"

Cocking his head to the side in question, the Elf said, "It wasn't my intention to give you the impression that I was unhappy with you, Aragorn."

Anger rose in Aragorn's chest and he pushed himself away from the door with an exclamation of disbelief. "What was your intention then?" he demanded. "You," he pointed a finger accusingly at the startled Elf, "swore to me, promised me faithfully, that you would not abandon me!"

"I have no view to abandoning you."

Tears of rage and panic sprung to Aragorn's eyes and he furiously swiped at them with his wrists, not wanting to shed them in Legolas' presence, especially when the Elven prince maintained his infuriating calm.

"It didn't feel like it today!" Aragorn yelled, voice quaking horribly as the words were ripped from his throat. "Today it felt very much like I was on my own."

Legolas suddenly leapt up from his chair at this, as though stunned that he'd given the boy he was charged with guiding and protecting the impression that he'd been in any way abandoned through his actions. "I didn't mean…I would never wish for you to think that way, Aragorn." He strode with purpose over to the man and dragged him into a hug, holding him almost painfully close to his chest. "Forgive me," Legolas breathed desperately, arms clamped around the boy.

And Aragorn, even through his anger, held his guardian back.

It felt like a long time before Legolas released his tight embrace. When Aragorn looked up into that familiar face it was drained of all colour, haunted shadows before unseen by the boy flittered unchecked across blue eyes sparkling with carefully controlled emotion.

"You are disappointed in me," Aragorn said softly, tears running freely down his face.

Legolas' eyes shone with grief and he exhaled slowly before raising his hands to cup his young charge's face, wiping gently at the tracks of tears. Looking deep into frightened grey eyes, Legolas told the boy in a voice that left his words in absolutely no doubt, "You have done nothing that could disappoint me." He smiled, to lighten the blow of his strong words. "You make me so very proud, Aragorn."

Aragorn this time threw himself into Legolas' arms, clinging onto him tightly as he cried into the Elf's shirt. Legolas' hand rubbed up and down the boy's back kindly, feeling very much as he had when his ward was a mere child, during those first tentative weeks of their acquaintance when the Elf had been so uncertain of how to care for a needy child.

"I think your father would have been proud also. So far you have lived up to every one of his expectations. And, for what it is worth, mine."

"It's worth a lot."

Legolas' eyes fell closed at this. He longed for Aragorn's approval; perhaps more so than he thought comfortable.

Again it was Legolas who pulled away first, smiling down at the still teary Aragorn. "I don't want you to ever think that I am not here for you." He led Aragorn to sit on the edge of the mattress and perched down next to him. "My reasons – misguided though they may have been – for leaving you to your own devices today…Aragorn, I want you to get experienced in leading these people. When we leave for Gondor, Kinnale will teach you their rules and customs so that you may take command when we do finally reach Gondor."

Swallowing thickly at the frightening prospect, Aragorn said, "I'll have to lead them?"

"That is your right and your duty. You are their king."

"But…so soon?"

"They will expect it."

"But what about Kinnale?"

"He knows his rank, knows it is beneath yours and knows that eventually he will be under your rule."

Bowing his head, Aragorn whispered, "I'm scared, Legolas. What if I fail?"

"You won't." The boy scoffed in blatant disbelief of his assertion. "Have a little faith in yourself."

Although Aragorn nodded, he remained unconvinced. So, wanting to direct the conversation away from him, he turned grey eyes on his guardian and asked, "Legolas, are you alright?"

"Why would I not be alright?" Legolas smiled gently.

Aragorn shrugged then offered, "How is your shoulder?"

"Getting better."

"It's been 'getting better' for a long time now," Aragorn pointed out. "We passed a hut today, filled with all kinds of unusual herbs that Kinnale said were used as healing remedies. They even have a physician in the town."

"Indeed, I recall," the Elf said, knowing just what Aragorn was getting at.

"They open in the morning when the curfew is lifted."

"Yes."

"Do you think you might go?"

"To the physician?" Aragorn nodded in confirmation. "Why might I go?"

"So that he can make sure you're well."

"Aragorn…" Legolas sighed wearily, rubbing at his eyes.

"You walk differently, as if you're in pain, and you have not been eating even though food is readily available here, nor have you been sleeping," Aragorn pointed out strongly, getting to his feet so he was looking down at his guardian as sternly as he dared. "Don't think I haven't noticed, no matter how hard you try to hide it."

A small passed over Legolas' lips at this. "How observant you have grown," he drawled. In response, Aragorn merely smiled, indicating that he would not be swayed. "You are determined in this?"

"Yes."

The Elf nodded slowly and echoed his words from Weathertop, "As you command, so shall I obey."

"Thank you," Aragorn smiled in relief. The worry for his guardian had been pressing on his mind for a while; he would be glad to be rid of it.

"First thing in the morning I'll go pay him a visit."

"Do you promise?"

"Yes, I promise," Legolas swore solemnly.

Aragorn nodded, not quite believing his guardian. "I'll go with you then."

"There really is no need."

"Yes there is."

"Do you not trust me?"

"With my life, absolutely, but this…most definitely not," the man told him with certainty.

Despite the obvious insult at the suggestion that he would break his promise to his ward, Legolas' heart warmed at the thought of Aragorn's deep trust in his guardianship. Once, when the unwanted responsibility had first been thrust upon him by Arathorn in his dying moments, Legolas had despised the notion that Aragorn's fate rested in his hands and that the naive, wide-eyed child in his care trusted him without fear. Now, it was of great comfort to him.

Pushing back the unwanted emotion, Legolas smiled. "Very well."

"Are you coming back down?" Aragorn then asked, satisfied at last as he moved towards the door. "Your presence is missed downstairs."

"No." Legolas patted the mattress slightly with his hand. "I think I will have an early night."

"Alright." Aragorn knew that he could not argue with that so he opened the door, saying a brief, "Goodnight," before he left.

Climbing beneath the sheets now that he was by himself once again, Legolas sighed and rested his head back on the thin, down pillows that the tavern's owner, Butterbur, had provided the honoured guests with. He was tired, weary to the bone, and yet sleep was not quick in coming. His keen hearing picked up on the sounds of laughter from downstairs in the bar and he pictured Aragorn joining in with his own kind, building friendships the likes of which he had never experienced so far. For some reason, Legolas found himself touched by the oddest sense of melancholy. During their time together and in spite of his better judgement, he had grown fond of the child, the thought of losing him made that ever-present ache in his chest surge just as it did when he remembered his lost family.

And, surely, one way or another, before this war was over, Aragorn would be lost to him.

With this final, darkly portentous thought preying on his mind, Legolas, exiled Prince of Mirkwood, fell into an uneasy, fitful sleep.

**OIOI**

"Really this should have been treated much sooner," the healer of Bree admonished once she had finished her thorough examination of Legolas' wounded shoulder, complete with much frowning and no small amount of tutting at his state. She dropped a length of clean cloth onto the table next to the bed on which Legolas was currently perched then retrieved the pot of clean water that had been left to heat over the fire. "This will sting," the tall blonde woman warned even as she pressed the wet cloth against the wound to clean it. Noting that Legolas, sat bolt upright and stiffly on her examination table, did not so much as flinch at the application of the cloth, she rolled her eyes and tutted again, just to be absolutely certain that Legolas was fully aware of her disapproval. "You warrior types are all the same."

Trying to keep his temper in check, Legolas ground out through the pain in his shoulder, "And what 'type' might that be, madam?"

"Stubborn. Ceaselessly stubborn." As she finished cleaning the infected wound, Legolas did flinch away from her touch, letting out a hiss of pain. "Hold still," she snapped, gripping his arm tightly to keep him from moving again.

"Well, you're hurting me," Legolas shouted back, shoving her away from him slightly more strongly than he had meant to and leapt to his feet to escape her, muttering, "Stupid woman," under her breath.

Obviously she heard his murmur, however, as she threw the cloth down on the examination table, put her hands on her slim hips and said, "Fine. I lose nothing if you die from your infection."

Legolas' anger cooled faster than it had flared and he regretted his words towards one who was only trying to help him. He turned back to face her, the apology written all over his face. "I am sorry, madam. Forgive me, please." He slowly moved to sit on the edge of the table again. "I am sorry."

For a moment she stared sternly at him, gauging whether his apology was indeed sincere. Legolas remained silent as she decided on her own whether she would continue to help him or not.

She relaxed after a while and sighed. "Very well. I accept your apology." She retrieved a bandage and began winding it around the injured shoulder.

The Elf remained silent, perfectly well behaved for the rest of the examination. Every so often the healer would look up, hoping the frostiness had thawed from cold blue eyes but each time she was disappointed.

"Alright; another one patched up," she told him wearily and he stood from the examination table and pulled his shirt back on. "Take it easy for a while."

"Right."

She walked to the cabinet on the far side of the room and picked out a small wooden pot, turned back around and asked, "Can I give you something for the pain?"

Legolas was already at the door though, dragging on his jacket as he went, and, as the door slammed closed, he called back a short, sharp, "No."

Outside, Legolas breathed deeply of the warm air, glad to be away from the intensely pungent smell of the herbalist shop in which the town physician practiced.

"How did it go?" Aragorn asked and Legolas turned towards the voice to find the boy leant up against the wall of the building, watching the Elf with curious concern.

"It went fine," the prince replied bluntly.

Moving to catch up with Legolas as he strode away, Aragorn asked sceptically, "Really?"

"Yes, really. What else were you expecting?" Legolas asked, scoffing at the boy's question. "Or do you not think I'm telling you the truth?"

"Of course I don't think you'd lie!" Aragorn rolled his eyes at the suggestion, then muttered, "I was only asking."

"She wrapped me in bandages, that's all. Is there anything else you want to know?" Legolas snapped in irritation, keeping his pace quick as he did whenever he wanted to escape his ward. Unfortunately, Aragorn was no longer a child and he could easily catch the Elf now, so there was no chance of escape.

"No, nothing else," Aragorn answered the rhetorical question cheerfully, unrepentantly. "Are we returning to the inn now?"

"Where else would we be going?"

In reply, Aragorn shrugged, fully aware that Legolas could not see it. He knew that there was no point in trying to cool Legolas' anger when he was in this kind of cantankerous mood, so he simply hung back and kept his silence as Legolas strode through the small town back toward the tavern in which they were staying.

**To Be Continued…**


	29. The Long Wait

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 29 – The Long Wait**

Much to Aragorn's surprise, the whole of Bree turned out to see them off the morning they left the town. Many of those – man and woman – who were able to bear arms, were joining the Rangers on their quest. At that first meeting in the inn when Kinnale had explained his commitment to the future King of Gondor, many of them had volunteered, insisted even, that they be involved in the effort in some way. Most were too young, too old or too inexperienced to consider taking along on the dangerous road but there were some strong enough to be of use to the cause and Kinnale had been eager to fast-track their initiation into the Rangers. They would not be as proficient with weapons or have the skills trained into the few select seasoned warriors but Kinnale was happy to include them, certain that he could make use of them in some way. Soldiers could always be trained.

As they walked from the town, backpacks full of supplies, as many as the people of Bree could spare, the women and children and elderly who were set to remain behind in Bree hugged and kissed goodbye, knowing fully the certain cost of the task their fellows were undertaking.

Aragorn was surprised by how many people hugged him, an outsider only just come amongst them, as he left; tearfully saying goodbye to one they barely knew they lamented his leaving, it seemed and it filled his heart with sadness to think that he might never return to the small homely town.

The only one who went entirely untroubled by well-wishers was Legolas. During their admittedly brief stay, the Elf had made no attempt to get to know anyone at all, distancing himself even from the Rangers he had come to know on the road. Over the week they'd stayed in Bree, the citizens had come to think him unsociable and thus had made no attempt whatsoever to befriend him. So, the Elf had locked himself away, uncaring of the talk spreading that he was cold and devoid of feeling, whilst his unfortunate ward was apparently warm and caring.

"That was a nice send-off," Aragorn said cheerfully to Legolas as they walked together now that they'd left the town and the crowds behind. "Don't you think?"

"What?" Legolas asked distractedly; he hadn't been paying much attention to his ward.

"I said they gave us a nice send-off."

"Yes." The Elf, however, did not look in the last bit pleased by any of the sentiment.

"How long do you think it'll take to reach Gondor?"

"I don't know," the guardian told him bluntly.

Aragorn glanced across at his mentor and asked, "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"Don't you like the people of Bree?"

"Why would you say that?" Legolas asked him emotionlessly, not so much as glancing in Aragorn's direction as he spoke.

Aragorn shrugged dismissively. "Just because you don't seem at all sorry to be leaving."

"I am not sorry."

"Why? They were so kind to us during our stay."

"I suppose."

"I'll miss Ellen especially; she was so sweet to me," Aragorn sighed wistfully, thinking about Kinnale's wife's endless hospitality upon inviting him into her humble home. Legolas merely stared at the path ahead, not impressed by the whimsy in his ward's voice. "Don't tell me you didn't like her either."

"I didn't know her."

"Well, you might have tried a bit harder instead of hiding in your room for the whole time," the man snapped irritably.

"Excuse me?" Legolas asked as his head turned sharply to look at Aragorn for the first time since setting off, shocked by his ward's bluntness towards him.

"You heard!" Aragorn said, stopping suddenly and forcing Legolas to do likewise. "They have been nothing but welcoming to us and you've been ungrateful beyond belief!"

Calmly, Legolas told him, "I am not ungrateful."

"Well, you're acting like it!"

Legolas looked briefly to the Rangers, who continued on without stopping at the pair's absence as they fell behind the group. None wanted to be involved in this disagreement. "I do not mean to."

Aragorn found himself, as ever, infuriated by the Elf's continued composure whilst his own emotions ran wild in the face of another dispute. "Then why did you say it? Why do you hate Bree and its people so much?"

"Aragorn, I don't hate them," the Elf sighed wearily.

"You could have fooled me!" Aragorn exclaimed in anger. He couldn't understand why Legolas was denying something that was so blatantly true. "You hardly spoke to anyone but Kinnale, accepted no invitations from anyone, you didn't even come down to sit with us in the bar in the evenings."

Blue eyes could be seen flickering briefly with pain before they drifted away from Aragorn's intensely burning gaze. The Elf shifted uncomfortably on his feet then, upon coming to a decision, sighed again and returned his gaze to the man. Almost in shame, Legolas confessed quietly, "I did dislike Bree."

"I knew you…!" Aragorn went to exclaim but was silenced by both Legolas' raised hand and the sad look on his pale face and glittering in blue eyes.

"I didn't like it because…it reminded me too much of my home," the Elf said so softly that Aragorn could hardly hear it.

Stunned by this unanticipated admission, Aragorn could think of nothing to say in return for a long while. When he finally did come up with something it was halting, uncertain and obviously deeply regretful for both his previous unfeeling words and thoughts against his guardian. "I…I didn't realise, Legolas. I should have…"

Legolas halted his words by laying his hand on Aragorn's shoulder and offering the boy a reassuring smile. "Do not trouble yourself," he said in a warm voice that also sounded troubling drained. "You will soon have enough to think about without also worrying about me as well. Now, come, we must catch up with the others before our absence becomes noticeable." Legolas released the man's shoulder after a quick squeeze of further reassurance and started to walk after the Rangers again, keeping a steady pace.

Still a little shocked by Legolas' sad words and that he had not even once considered this to be a possibility, Aragorn at first followed slowly before jogging to catch up with the Elf. He was walking as if nothing had held them up in the first place, strong and sure as ever, keeping his silence; he would not speak unless Aragorn dared bring up the subject again. It had been hard to admit that for it was hard to acknowledge it even to himself. The look of surprise and pity on Aragorn's face had reminded him why he had said nothing in Bree.

"Legolas, I am sorry," he said once they were again walking side by side.

"It is hardly your fault," Legolas smiled sadly across at him, some of the coldness between them thawed now that Aragorn understood his reasoning. That, at least, was a relief.

"No, but…I should have realised."

"How could you?"

"I…"

Pausing on the track again, Legolas said, "Can we not speak of this anymore, please? We have more important things to discuss than my failings."

"Of course," Aragorn agreed sadly, slowly following after his mentor.

The Rangers, it turned out, travelled very differently to how Legolas preferred to travel. They moved slowly, steadily during the daylight hours. At nightfall, they stopped. They never once walked in darkness. Day was for travelling, night for sleeping. This was certainly proving a novelty for Aragorn and a great frustration to the impatient Legolas. Their pace was slower than Aragorn was used to and very often he inadvertently found himself at the front of the group with his Elven guardian, wanting to push onwards even as the Men held them back.

Despite the fact that he was so obviously frustrated by their slow pace and constant pauses in progress, Legolas managed to hold his tongue, adjusting himself – with no small amount of difficulty – to the Rangers' way of doing things. Aragorn could see how hard it was on the Elf being held up in this way – he'd personally very often seen that look of consternation on Legolas' face whenever he, as a youth had dawdled on the Old Forest Road.

Rarely did Legolas stay with the group at night. Once Aragorn had settled around the fire that the Rangers always infuriatingly insisted upon building during the cold winter nights, the Elf often slipped away, sometimes without a word, but mostly with the unlikely explanation that he was checking for enemy activity along their route. No one stopped him. In fact, Aragorn was fairly sure that the majority of the group were actually relieved when Legolas left their presence, for the only ones Legolas would speak to were Aragorn or Kinnale, everyone else was ignored.

That terrifying distance that Aragorn had so greatly feared would divide them at the inclusion of a third party was well and truly in place now and it saddened Aragorn even more than he had imagined it would. He missed the feeling of being looked after solely by his guardian. He missed the training that, ever since entering Bree, Legolas had ceased to pursue. He even missed the Elf's sometimes rather dour, taciturn company. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the company of the friendly Rangers. He'd already made some solid friends amongst them, especially in Ciaran, their leader's son, who was roughly the same age as him and of the same kind of temperament. But none of them were a match for Legolas and as they travelled further, Aragorn felt his friend and mentor drifting further and further away.

**OIOI**

"Aragorn! Aragorn!" Legolas pushed forcefully through the bulky Orcs that surrounded them, heedless of the blows being aimed at him. He was moving so rapidly that he didn't even need to block the advance of any of the weapons, even though occasionally the blades nicked his clothes and skin. Small, insignificant wounds. "Aragorn!"

He'd seen the man fall. He knew he had. Now he desperately sought Aragorn out amidst the chaos of the unexpected Orc attack that had fallen upon them.

"Aragorn! Answer me!"

"Legolas?" It was not his young ward who called but rather Kinnale. The Ranger grabbed Legolas' arm and pulled him aside with no hint of gentleness. "What are you doing?"

"Aragorn – I can't find him."

Kinnale looked around himself then assured, "I'm sure he's fine. Let's deal with this most pressing problem first."

Before Legolas had a chance to protest at this careless order, Kinnale plunged back into the battle, fighting alongside the Rangers against the vicious creatures. But the Elf could not heed Kinnale's words. He had to know that Aragorn was unhurt before he could concentrate on anything else, even the angry mass of bloody fighting going on all around him.

"Aragorn! Ara…" Legolas could not finish his imploring cry as he was knocked to the ground, his breath stolen from him at his sharp fall to the blood-wetted ground. The bulky creature that had tackled him did not linger to finish the job, however, as it found another target. Nevertheless, Legolas was suitably floored for the time being. The grey sky blurred above him for a moment until he managed to regain his breath and levered himself into an awkward sitting position.

All around him, the Rangers fought the Orcs with great success. They were, for the most part, skilled warriors and these dull-witted Orcs for them were not much more than target practice. Legolas retrieved his knife, knocked from his hand after he'd been tackled to the ground, and struggled to his feet. He still could see not see any sign of Aragorn anywhere so dived back into the fray. This time though, he could not avoid engaging in the battle as he was assaulted from all sides. His anger and fear at this distraction from his purpose proved a good motivator, however, and he cut down the Orcs without mercy; eyes only partially taking in what he was doing whilst still desperately seeking out Aragorn.

Deciding that the only way to get his ward back was to dispense of all distraction, Legolas went on the attack, cutting down the foul creatures of Sauron with practiced ease. It wasn't long before, at the Rangers' side, he triumphed. Orc bodies littered the blood-soaked ground but Legolas had no interest in looking at the filthy corpses. He moved as quickly as he could through the Men – mostly unhurt save for a few scratches and grazes here and there – searching for Aragorn but he could not find any sign of the young man.

"Aragorn!" he called loudly, startling the Rangers who stood around looking at the devastation in the wake of the battle. "Aragorn!"

With panic now racing through him, Legolas began the task of searching through the remains on the battlefield. Surely Aragorn could not have fallen. Not here, not like this. Panic rose to desperation as he pulled heavy Orc corpses aside in an attempt to find his missing ward.

It was only when he physically ran into the Rangers' tracker, Kalub, that Legolas realised that the others had also finally taken up the search for Aragorn. Barely able to think straight through blind panic, Legolas moved quickly through the slaughter, checking for signs of his ward amongst the Orc bodies.

"Legolas!" a man shouted, gaining the Elf's attention. "Here."

Shoving the Rangers aside, Legolas raced over to where Janor crouched, dragging a dead Orc body off a pile.

"Aragorn!" Legolas threw himself down, unheeding of the blood and mud that now made up the ground on this field of battle, and helped the second in command of the Rangers lift the bulky corpse off his fallen ward. Dragging the boy into his arms, Legolas frantically felt the young man's neck for a pulse then released a heavy sigh of relief when, after a second of concentrating, he felt the steady thumping beneath his fingers. "He lives," he breathed a reassurance to the Rangers standing anxiously around him waiting for confirmation that their future king was not dead to them already. "We have to get him somewhere safe. We cannot stay here amongst this filth."

Kinnale nodded in eager agreement, knowing all too well the risks of lingering too long amongst the Orcs – dead or otherwise – and called to the Rangers, "Let's move out." He turned to Legolas again just as the Elf lifted the yet unconscious Aragorn up into his badly trembling arms. Stepping forward, the commander told him sternly, "You should let me carry him."

Adjusting Aragorn's weight in his already aching arms, Legolas insisted firmly, "I can manage," then walked away from the Commander of the Rangers before further protests could be made by the concerned man.

Legolas was keen to put as much distance as possible between them and the slain creatures of Mordor as quickly as was possible and for once the Men of Bree seemed to concur wholeheartedly with the Elf's sentiments. They moved as fast as they could manage across the barren lands, fleeing the site of battle.

Whilst the Rangers wisely kept their weapons close to hand and remained on high alert for fear that there could be the further danger of Orc patrols moving along their chosen route, Legolas' concentration and eyes remained entirely fixated upon the pale, unconscious charge laid limply in his arms. The young man had not stirred once during the three whole hours they had been on the move and the flutter of worry that had begun subtly building in his chest when they had first started out now continued to grow stronger with every passing minute that Aragorn remained unresponsive until it became a pounding so intense that it became physically painful.

"Legolas." A hand upon the Elf's shoulder accompanied the strong voice of the Commander of the Rangers; both of which startled Legolas so greatly from his thoughts that he stumbled gracelessly over his own feet and very nearly fell flat on his face. Kinnale's hands shot out to steady him though and he quickly regained his balance. "Sir, let me take him from you." Legolas looked about at the multiple pairs of eyes watching him pityingly as they continued walking around him. Kinnale's voice was soft now as he continued, "You have carried him long enough."

Defying the burning pain shooting up his tired arms, made all the more noticeable by Kinnale's mention of it, Legolas shifted Aragorn's dead weight again and, starting to walk forward, muttered a gruff, "I am fine."

"You are in pain," the man whispered to him, knowing already the pride of the Elven being.

"I am not."

"Yes; your shoulder troubles you still. What good is your defiance if you drop him?"

"I will not drop him!" Legolas very nearly snarled obstinately at the very suggestion that he would be so careless with his precious charge.

"You would risk dropping our king?" Kinnale asked pointedly, knowing fully well already that Legolas would not be able to sufficiently argue that logic. "Let me take him for a while. At the very least it will give you a chance to restore the feeling lost in your arms," he added more kindly, trying to be as persuasive as he could.

Glancing down at the near-lifeless man cradled in his arms, Legolas concluded that Kinnale was right and he nodded gently in rather bitter submission. "Very well," he agreed, although it hurt him to do so, before carefully transferring Aragorn into the stronger arms of the tall commander.

Just as they started walking again and Legolas started stretching his arms out to get the feeling back into them, the Ranger's scout, the stern, flame-haired Tarsem, ran up to Kinnale, barely out of breath from his run, and relayed, "There is a network of hills not a league from here; they should provide sufficient shelter for us."

"Thank you, Tarsem. We will stop there. Go on ahead of us and light a fire ready for our arrival," Kinnale ordered the scout.

Shrewd green eyes went to the man laid limply in the embrace of his commander and he asked emotionlessly, "Will he live?"

Before Kinnale could reply to the harsh enquiry, Legolas snapped with a mixture of anger and terrible fear, "Of course he will live."

"Get going," Kinnale then ordered his riled scout and Tarsem obeyed with a scathing glance in Legolas' direction.

As Tarsem had predicted, it did not take long for the Rangers to reach the uneven ground that the scout had described. In the most sheltered place, that also provided ideal concealment from any passing enemy spies, Tarsem had dutifully set up a fire ready for them and put water in a pot, which now hung over the flames to heat up.

Carefully, Kinnale laid Aragorn down on blanket that had been placed close to the fire. Right away, Legolas was back at his side, hands searching the boy for wounds. They hadn't had time to stop when fleeing the battlefield to check the young man's injuries.

He found that, besides an obvious gash on his abdomen, Aragorn had not been seriously hurt by Orc weaponry. It was the cut to the back of the man's head that worried Legolas the most, for this was almost certainly the cause of his continued unconsciousness and therefore obviously must be classed as a serious injury.

Ignoring all offers of help from the sombre men moving quietly around him, Legolas used a damp cloth to clear away the dried blood that caked the boy's head, face and torso, revealing overly pale, bruised skin underneath. Tears threatened to obscure his vision at the sight of his young charge struggling to breathe through what he suspected to be broken, or at the very least, fractured ribs, but he blinked them back to better focus on the task before him.

Once he'd finished, Legolas replaced the mask of calm to his face and got to his feet.

"He should wake soon," the Elf assured the worried Kinnale, who had been looking over his shoulder the whole time he worked. "But he still needs to rest."

Kinnale nodded and walked with Legolas a couple of steps away from where Aragorn laid covered in a blanket close to the fire for warmth. "We have set up a watch all around the perimeter so we should be safe here for a while at least."

"Good."

"I'm sending Kalub out with a small hunting party – you never know, they might get lucky and we can eat tonight." Kinnale sighed heavily then and rubbed his hand over his stubble-darkened chin, clearly still twitchy after the harsh battle with the servants of Shadow.

"Right." Honestly, Legolas did not care much about hunting parties; he couldn't even think about eating when worry knotted in his stomach.

"Father?" Kinnale's son, Ciaran, came over to the pair. "How is Aragorn?"

Laying his hand on his son's shoulder, the Ranger smiled reassuringly. "He'll be fine after a little rest."

Relieved, Ciaran asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Not right now, son. Rest a while in case we have to move quickly again."

"Yes, sir." Ciaran smiled first to his father, who returned the gesture, and then to Legolas, who didn't even seem to notice the boy's presence.

At the boy's leaving, Legolas was startled from his thoughts and asked the commander, "I forgot to enquire: was anyone else hurt? In the attack, was anyone else injured?"

"Nothing serious. Everyone – including Aragorn, by the way – is going to be fine," Kinnale stressed.

"Yes." Legolas nodded thoughtfully. "I'm going to sit with him until he wakes."

"That could be a while," Kinnale went to tell him but Legolas had already left his side and returned to Aragorn's. With a sigh, the man decided to just give up trying to console him and let the Elf have his own way in this matter. When it came to Aragorn there could be no reasoning with him; so it would only be a waste of energy to try.

The general mood amongst the Rangers lifted when the hunting party, led by Kalub, returned with a couple of skinny rabbits to cook and eat. It wasn't much, but over the years of pitifully sparse resources, the Men had learned how to stretch out very little meat to feed as many as they needed.

With the adrenaline of the earlier battle now worn off, many of the Rangers dozed on the ground as night fell, whilst others gathered into smaller groups to discuss the surprise ambush by the Orcs.

Legolas, however, remained by Aragorn's side in case he should wake. Much to his concern, Aragorn barely stirred under his solemn watch. Darkness replaced typically grey daylight and then Legolas watched only by flickering firelight, eyes fixed on that painfully youthful face for even the slightest movement that might indicate wakefulness.

But only the slow rising and falling of Aragorn's chest proved that life continued to endure within the otherwise motionless body. One consolation was that his breathing didn't seem quite as laboured now as Aragorn relaxed into the pain. That surely had to be a good sign, or at least it comforted Legolas during his fraught vigil.

"Looks like a storm is coming," Janor's light voice startled Legolas from his thoughts. He blinked to clear his vision just as lightning flashed again away to the east. A tin cup was held before him and he looked up to see the blonde man standing at his side. "Tea. Kinnale said you refused food." He nudged the cup at Legolas' hesitation. "If nothing else, it'll warm you up."

Slowly, Legolas reached out his stiff arm and gratefully took the cup. "Thank you," he said softly before taking a small sip. With a sigh as warmth slid down his throat and warmed him inside, Legolas returned his gaze to Aragorn then he frowned and looked down at the steaming herbal drink in his cup and mused, "I suppose I should try to get some fluids into him."

Crouching down beside Aragorn's head, Janor asked, "Do you think he will wake soon?"

After taking another sip of his tea, Legolas shook his head. "I don't know," he sighed wearily.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Legolas shook his head thoughtfully, attention once more fixed upon Aragorn rather than the young Ranger at his side. "It is just a matter of waiting for him to wake."

Janor's eyes also moved to the young man laid on a blanket, pale and unmoving as the dead, before the small, crackling fire. At his side, Legolas was no longer touching his ward as he had been doing earlier but rather sat cross-legged about a foot away from him, close enough to see even a slight flicker of waking. Janor was reminded of the time Kinnale's son, just sixteen at the time and out on his very first patrol with the Rangers his strong father commanded, had been injured in an Orc raid. The boy had been unconscious for two full hours and Kinnale had sat at his son's side, wearing the same identical expression of desperate anticipation as Legolas now had etched on his face the whole time. Not a father himself, Janor could not understand the feeling personally but he sympathised with the Elf prince all the same.

"Would you like me to sit with him for a while?" Janor asked in a soft voice, both for persuasion but also because many of the Rangers were sleeping now and he didn't want to wake anyone unnecessarily.

"No, thank you."

"Are you sure? I don't mind if you want to take a break."

"I said no," Legolas snapped at him impatiently. "Thank you for the tea."

It was a dismissal, Janor realised, and he fought not to be offended by the Elf's curtness. So, nodding understandingly even though he didn't understand at all, the man stood up straight again. "Well, just yell if you need anything."

This time, Legolas did not make any response but before he could repeat his offer of assistance, Kinnale called him over to relay the report of the earlier battle again to the scout.

Not long after that, the rest of the camp settled down for the night. Watches were set, with the Men remaining on edge after the earlier surprise Orc attack. For once though, Legolas wanted no part in that particular important obligation. He had his own watch to attend to. He was aware of Kinnale observing him for a long while but he paid the man no heed, ignoring the concern obviously radiating from the Ranger.

For Legolas, the night was almost painfully long. With only the simple task of stirring the fire to break up the mind-numbing monotony of the tedious night-time hours, Legolas found his mind unintentionally wandering to the darker moments from his troubled past. One thing he remained fully aware of even through his meandering thoughts, however, was Aragorn's condition. The man's state did not change at all throughout the night. Every half hour, Legolas' fingers came to rest on the pulse at his wrist to ensure that his heart continued to beat steadily even in unconsciousness. It did but as the hours drew on it became less and less of a reassurance.

When the first light of dawn began to filter through the thick grey clouds above, Legolas wearily looked skywards. Thankfully, the storm that had earlier threatened had come to nothing but a light and brief drizzle of rain and the night had remained mercifully peaceful. The Rangers were not yet stirring in the camp; it was only just dawn and they would take all the time to sleep that they could. Legolas had been too worried about his unconscious ward to sleep at all that night or even leave Aragorn's side for a moment. He didn't want to miss any sign that Aragorn was in pain or distress and he certainly didn't want Aragorn to wake up all alone.

As the sky lightened further, the Elf stifled a yawn and ran his hand over his aching eyes. Stiffly, he uncrossed his legs and stretched them out before him, wincing at the cramp brought on from sitting on the hard ground in the same position for so long during his night-time vigil. To work out the persistent ache in his arms, he stretched them high above his head, ignoring with sheer determination the stab of pain that shot over his left shoulder and streaked down his arm and across his chest brought on by his as of yet unhealed wound. Rearranging himself back to his previous position, Legolas chanced a quick glance around the campsite. They would be stirring soon, eager to be on the move once again, to continue across the plains towards the next ill-fated Human civilisation. But, for the first time since their brief pause in Rivendell, Legolas did not feel the desperate need to be on the move. Every single one of his scattered thoughts rested solely on Aragorn rather than their intended destination.

"He hasn't moved all night," Janor said quietly to his commander, looking with Kinnale over at the motionless Elf.

Sipping at his freshly made tea, Kinnale shrugged, swallowed then answered, "I cannot force him to leave the boy."

"Yes, but you could _talk_ to him; try to persuade him."

The commander sighed softly in submission and handed Janor his tin cup. He was just about to head towards Legolas in an attempt to persuade the Elf to at least leave Aragorn's side long enough to stretch out his folded legs, when Legolas abruptly sat up straight and shifted onto his knees so he could bend over the prone man in front of him.

Kinnale's gentle, reluctant stroll accelerated into a run upon seeing the abrupt action and he fell to his knees opposite Legolas, keen to see the soft grey eyes of the Human king. He was disappointed, however, to discover Aragorn remained unchanged.

"What…?" Kinnale started to ask why the Elf had moved so suddenly and why there was such a look of expectation on the face of the prince.

Legolas ignored the Ranger, placing his hand delicately on Aragorn's shoulder as though to rouse him. So softly that Kinnale's ears could hardly pick it up, Legolas whispered, "Aragorn, open your eyes."

And, as if by magic, or summoned simply by Legolas' touch, confused eyes fluttered open with no small amount of difficulty. A grin lit up Kinnale's face that at last the boy was awake but Legolas' face remained a mask of strictly enforced concentration and calm. It was obvious to everyone watching that the Elf desperately longed to see if his ward was well after the bang he'd received to his head and yet he sat with remarkable patience as Aragorn blinked the grey sky into focus then moved his gaze blearily to the concerned blonde being partially leant over him.

At long last, Legolas broke the silence, smiling, "Welcome back."

Aragorn frowned deeply. "Legolas? Where…? What happened?" The young man's voice was a little rough and very slightly slurred through his continued confusion. He blinked then, as if only just remembering. "There was an attack." Panicked now, he asked, "Was anyone hurt?"

"Yes. You," Kinnale laughed, relieved that the boy was at least alert enough to form coherent questions.

At Aragorn's frown, Legolas quietly clarified, "You were injured in the battle, Aragorn."

"Injured?"

Soothingly, Legolas tightened his hand on the man's shoulder and Kinnale noticed how the boy relaxed instantly, his trust in his guardian implicit. "A minor scratch and you banged your head." Aragorn could well believe this last part. His head throbbed cruelly, making it frustratingly difficult to entirely focus on Legolas' words and their meaning. "You will be just fine. For a whole day now you have been unconscious." Legolas moved his hand to rest gently upon Aragorn's forehead, which smoothed at his touch, and smiled. "But you're awake now; you'll be fine."

"Alright," Aragorn mumbled, still disoriented. "I don't remember any of that."

"Don't worry," Legolas smiled, although it was shakier than previously, Kinnale noticed. "You just need to rest."

The boy frowned again, his eyes sliding closed. "My head hurts."

"It took quite a pounding, so I'm not surprised," Kinnale grinned down at the child.

More sympathetically, Legolas said, "There is not much we can do to ease it. Try to go back to sleep and maybe when you next wake you will feel better still."

Aragorn agreed, being careful not to nod his head. Then he asked Kinnale, without opening his eyes, "Has he been sat there all night?"

Legolas and Kinnale looked at one another and the commander laughed softly, laying his hand on Aragorn's shoulder. In a light-hearted voice, he confirmed, "Since you were hurt in the battle he has not once left your side."

Aragorn's eyes opened again, fixed upon the Elf and he asked, "Not once?"

"Nope."

"We were worried for you," Legolas informed the young man in his defensive.

Looking once more to the lightly amused Ranger, Aragorn told him softly, "He should sleep."

"Yes," Kinnale agreed pointedly, looking to Legolas. "He should. Even with a concussion, your ward has more sense in such matters than you."

It was said in no way cruelly and Legolas understood that. Rolling his eyes at both men, he told Aragorn, "You just worry about yourself, not me."

Aragorn nodded gently, worn out even by this short conversation. Just a moment later he was fast asleep once more. Legolas readjusted the blanket across the boy's chest, resisting the urge that swept through him to run a paternal hand over his ward's pale forehead. How he longed to take away Aragorn's pain. Whenever the child had been unwell in his youth, Legolas had found himself to be at an absolute loss as to how to care for him. Elven children did not suffer from illness and Legolas' healing experience had been limited to messily dealing with battle wounds that may have been sustained on patrol in his dark forest home. He had never in his life needed to know more than the bare minimum and he had learnt from difficult experience alone how to deal with his youthful human's childhood illnesses – even then his knowledge remained so sorely limited that any respectable healer would have found it almost deplorable.

During his past life as Prince of Mirkwood he had only ever focused on being a fine enough warrior to protect and defend his people from the Shadow. Now he wished he had taken more time out of weapons training to learn the art of healing from his childhood mentors or from Lord Elrond, one of Middle Earth's greatest healers, on one of his many visits to Rivendell.

So involved in his own thoughts was Legolas that it was only when a hand touched his arm that he realised Kinnale had been speaking to him and he hadn't heard a single word. The man was now looking at him questioningly, obviously waiting for a reply.

"I'm sorry?" Legolas asked, realising that he couldn't simply guess at an answer seeing as he had absolutely no clue what the man had been saying.

"Have you not been listening to a word I've been saying?"

"No. Sorry," Legolas admitted, unfolding his cramped legs. "Excuse me." Stiffly, he climbed to his feet, carefully disguising the wince that threatened to cross his features.

Before a surprised Kinnale could say anything more, Legolas had walked swiftly away, leaving Aragorn's side for the first time since the end of the battle with the Orcs. The Ranger sighed in despair. His life had been so much less complicated before he'd stumbled upon the Elf and his ward on Amon Sul. There were times when he longed to have that simplicity back once more.

Legolas had been gone for almost thirty minutes before Kinnale, concerned for his well-being, went off in search of him. As he moved across the camp though, Tarsem caught up with him. Restraining a sigh, Kinnale asked, "Can it wait? There's something I have to do."

"We need to start moving soon. This place may well be sheltered but it will not render us invisible. To linger too long might attract unwanted enemies to our position."

"All of this I know."

"Then you should order the immediate dismantlement of the camp."

"Should I now?" Kinnale stopped to stare directly at his scout in response to the order. "Forgive me, Tarsem, but have you, without my knowledge, been promoted to Commander?"

"No, sir, of course…"

"Then perhaps you should leave it to me to give the orders," he 'suggested'. The red-haired man nodded tersely. "Legolas will not wish to move Aragorn too soon. Let us give him another day to recover, then I will reassess our situation. Does that suit you?"

It was not a well-intentioned question and fortunately Tarsem interpreted that from the older man's tone of voice for had he not then things might not have ended quite so civilly. "Yes sir."

"Good."

With that final, short word for his grumpy scout, Kinnale walked away, continuing his search for the missing Elf. He felt Tarsem's shrewd green eyes burning judgementally into his back as he left though. Had the man not been with him for so long, ever since he had first taken up the title of Commander, then Kinnale mused that he would have dismissed the increasingly grouchy man from his service long ago. Tarsem only wanted what was best and in this case Kinnale knew him to be correct in his assessment, and he was loyal and excellent at his appointed job. If only he were a little milder mannered.

Fortunately, Legolas had not wandered too far from their main camp and Kinnale found him easily enough, hidden though he was behind the remains of some spindly tree trunks. He'd expected to find the Elf perhaps cleaning himself up or pacing off that anxiety he had been holding tense all through the night and loosening his stiff muscles. He was most certainly not expecting the blonde to be knelt on the ground, arms folded tightly around himself, head bent so his chin touched his chest, shuddering violently. The Elf uttered no sound in spite of his distress but neither did he appear to notice Kinnale's arrival.

Kinnale found himself suddenly torn between leaving the Elf to what he obviously considered to be a private moment for which he'd purposefully sought solitude or going over to check that, after his majorly stressful night, Legolas was alright.

He knew that, as an intensely proud person himself, he would not wish to be disturbed, but Kinnale's conscience troubled him so that he couldn't merely walk away.

Decision set in his mind, the man tentatively stepped towards Legolas. Giving the Elf fair warning of his approach with loud footsteps, he asked loudly, "Are you alright?"

Legolas tensed visibly at the sound of his voice but made no answer. He further tightened his arms around himself and shuddered again. Drawing in a shaky breath, he minutely lifted his head and tried to compose himself in Kinnale's presence but when he released said breath he was surprised to find that it came out with a soft sob filled with despair. He slapped a white hand over his mouth in shock at the foreign sound. But it was too late; he knew Kinnale had already heard and was stepping forward in curiosity.

"Legolas?"

Swallowing thickly, Legolas removed his hand from his mouth, replacing it against his waist where it had come from and assured in a strained voice, "I'm fine. I'll be back to camp in a moment." It was too shaky to believe.

And Kinnale did not believe. He came to Legolas' side and crouched down, laying his hand against the Elf's shoulder. "You don't look fine, my friend." Legolas shook his head, unable to speak the quip that was poised teasingly on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he moved his hand to his eyes to try to hide the tears that shimmered in them. Kinnale squeezed his shoulder, a little out of his depth with the obviously upset prince who'd, up until this point, never shown much emotion at all before. "If this is about Aragorn…He'll be fine now; you said so yourself."

"I know," Legolas agreed, rubbing his eyes.

"He just needs time to sleep off his confusion."

Again, Legolas nodded. "I know that. Really, Kinnale, I'll be fine. I just…I hate to see him…" He stopped to steady himself again. "I hate that I can't protect him."

"It was an attack – an unforeseen attack at that. You couldn't possibly have known what was going to happen. There's nothing you could have done to prevent his injury." The Elf cast a watery sceptical look in Kinnale's direction but the man continued anyway. "And it wasn't like you were sitting on the side-lines doing nothing. You did have your own fight to concentrate on if you recall. And if you had wavered from that concentration then it would have been you laid unconscious on the ground."

"Better me than Aragorn," Legolas said without hesitation.

"If it were you, then I've no doubt that Aragorn would be equally upset and stubborn."

Softly now, Legolas said, "I don't know about that."

Kinnale shifted uncomfortably in his surprise at that comment, sorrowful and self-deprecating. He squeezed Legolas' shoulder again and reasoned, "I'll ignore that madness for the moment." Legolas hung his head low again, shrugging Kinnale's hand off him at last. "You're tired, my friend; you need to sleep – before any more is said that you will later regret."

The Elf did not reply to that but lifted his head and nodded in agreement. "Give me five minutes then I'll return."

"Alright." Kinnale did not doubt that Legolas considered not returning to the Ranger's camp. But he was equally certain that Legolas would never leave Aragorn. So, he stood up, safe in the knowledge that he'd see the Elf again once he'd pulled himself together.

When Legolas did return to the campsite, it couldn't honestly be said that he looked entirely comfortable. He looked over Aragorn first but the man remained sleeping peacefully, just as he had left him, so Legolas moved over to the other side of the camp, ignoring the other men milling around and watching him curiously and went to the very edge of the campsite where he laid down on his back on the ground, not bothering with a blanket, which remained draped over Aragorn anyway, and closed his eyes.

**To Be Continued…**


	30. You Only Speak The Truth

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews. And also thanks to everyone who's added me to their Alerts/Favourites lists. Enjoy the latest instalment. **

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 30 – You Only Speak The Truth**

Legolas opened his eyes to a hand roughly shaking him awake. Lying awkwardly on his side, Legolas blinked to clear his vision. Much to his surprise it had turned dark out. He had unwittingly slept the whole day away. Rolling onto his back, he discerned that Janor was the inconsiderate one shaking him into awareness.

"We have some food if you would like some, Prince Legolas."

Still a little bleary after his prolonged sleep, Legolas nodded, resisting the urge to stretch out his aching limbs. His hurt shoulder pained him more than it had in quite a while and he didn't want to alert Janor to the discomfort it caused him, for surely then it would also get back to the commander and he would never hear the end of it.

Sitting up stiffly, Legolas looked about himself. The Rangers had lit the fire again and although this brazen breach of safety out in the Orc-infested wilds irritated Legolas somewhat, he found himself also pleased for it. He got gingerly to his feet, working out the stiffness in his legs and arms as he moved over to the fire where the men were gathered. Aragorn was not sat up with the Rangers but rather laid sleeping nearby, just as he had been when Legolas had left him. So, not wanting to disturb the boy without cause, Legolas went straight past him to join the others.

"Legolas! Awake at last!" Veron, a young and ever-happy Ranger who had gotten to be a good friend to Aragorn during their brief stay in Bree, enthused at his appearance. Despite his cheerfulness and inherent friendliness, the big man had had very little to do with Legolas so the Elf just stared blankly down at him until green eyes were lowered in defeat.

Kinnale nudged the abashed warrior in the ribs for the misplaced comment. "Sit down," he told the Elf, swallowing his mouthful of rabbit. "Help yourself to food."

Glancing around the numerous faces watching him in the flickering firelight, Legolas reached forward to pick a mouthful of meat from the rabbit secured on a spit over the flames. Before he ate the well-cooked morsel though, he looked again in concern over to where his ward slept.

"He ate earlier," Kinnale reassured the Elf quietly, knowing fully well that Legolas would ensure his ward was fed before he thought about himself.

Legolas looked up sharply in surprise. "He was awake?"

"For a short while, yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I _am_ telling you."

"No, why didn't you wake me when he woke?" Legolas pressed in annoyance.

Kinnale shrugged. "Because you were sleeping," he answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world – which to all the Men around the fire, it was.

For his part, Legolas thought the reply ridiculous and he told Kinnale so. "I am never so deeply asleep that I cannot be woken at need."

"That's just the point; there was no need," the Rangers' Commander said, voice raised slightly in his irritation at the Elf's stubborn attitude. "Aragorn woke up, drank some water, swallowed down some food, complained that his head still ached and then returned to sleep. He was awake less than five minutes." Legolas sat back a little at the tense tone of the Ranger. "What exactly could you have contributed to that?"

"I…" Legolas started but got no further than his first word before Kinnale interrupted.

"Look, be angry all you like but what's done is done. You needed to sleep yourself so I let you sleep and no one is any worse off for it. Let's just leave it at that."

Legolas looked at each of the Men gathered around the fire in turn and saw on their faces an identical mixture of amusement at the dressing down he'd just received from the annoyed commander and warning that he shouldn't challenge Kinnale any further on the matter.

Deciding that it wasn't worth the effort to argue, Legolas got up from his place and stalked back to the edge of the campsite, away from all the others in the group. It was times of disagreement like this that he longed for his solitary life on the Old Forest Road once more.

**OIOI**

"Lean on me if you need to."

Aragorn rolled his eyes at the Elf's once more repeated offer, finding comfort in the exasperated action even though Legolas could not see it. It had been three days since the battle in which he had been injured and Legolas had utterly insufferable ever since his waking. It was starting to drive him towards the brink of madness.

"I don't need to," Aragorn huffed, attempting and failing to drag his arm out of the Elf's secure grip.

"You are yet recovering."

Through gritted teeth, the man told him once again, slowly and darkly, "I am fine to walk on my own."

"You are not fine. You are injured."

"Not so injured that I am unable to walk a mere ten paces on my own."

Staring intently at the man's feet to be certain that Aragorn wasn't going to trip on the uneven surface of the ground, Legolas ignored the grumbling, having grown more than used to it by now. He had his arm wrapped around the young man's back, one hand holding onto Aragorn's arm for extra support and he would not remove the support no matter how many times the man protested that he was perfectly capable of moving on his own and did not require aid.

The Elf had been proven himself to be completely insufferable all day long. The Rangers, antsy at being stopped in one place for an extended period of times after a major Orc attack, had insisted upon moving on that morning in spite of Legolas' fervent protests that Aragorn should be allowed a little longer to rest and recover. So, after a furious argument, which the still slightly dazed and increasingly frustrated Aragorn had been entirely left out of much to his intense chagrin, Legolas had finally agreed to move on, although only on the provision that the youth be carried on a litter until he was entirely recovered from his injuries. At this, Aragorn had finally chimed in, being coherent enough to maintain at least the last few shreds of his pride that remained. Legolas had shot him down instantly, brooking no protest until he had been silenced on the subject.

So, Aragorn's already bad mood, stemming partially from the fact that his head continued to ache cruelly, was intensified when he was loaded onto a litter that the none-too-happy Rangers had spent the whole morning constructing from what materials they could salvage scattered around. Legolas had tried in vain to placate his ward but to little avail. Aragorn wanted to be annoyed and nothing was going to sway him. After all, it was completely justified in this case. In his opinion, Legolas was going too far.

By the time they had stopped in the evening, Aragorn was tired and thoroughly miserable; fed up of being carried around by grumbling Men and even more irritated by Legolas' incessant mothering.

Once they had made their way behind the brown, dried out brush that served to conceal them from the eyes of the Rangers, they came to a halt, Legolas still on the alert for any enemies. They all remained skittish after the ambush a couple of days ago, understandably worried about a repeat attack.

"Alright, we're away from the camp; just like you asked," the Elf told his ward, removing his arm from around the man's waist but still keeping hold of his arm just in case he needed steadying. He then looked expectantly at Aragorn.

And the boy returned the look in kind, waiting pointedly for his guardian to leave.

Seemingly oblivious to the boy's unspoken plea, Legolas nodded curtly then asked brazenly, "Well, are you going or not?"

"Not with you watching me, I'm not."

Legolas turned his head to the side, face away from Aragorn. "Then I shan't watch."

"Legolas," the man moaned despairingly, rolling his face upwards to the skies in an act of exasperation.

"Just hurry up. We're outside the camp's perimeter, no one can see you."

"No. Leave me alone."

"You are not yet well enough to be left entirely on your own."

"Yes, I am! I'm fine. Fine enough, anyway, to stand on my own for one minute."

"Don't be absurd." Legolas looked back at the man in annoyance. "You cannot walk on your own. You have sustained a serious head wound and are not yet recovered."

"I'm standing right now, aren't I?" Aragorn spat at his infuriating guardian.

"Yes; because I am supporting you. Now, we can stand here arguing all night if you want; but if you have no intention of getting on with it then I'd prefer it if you'd tell me now so we can return to the safety of camp."

"Legolas," this time Aragorn sighed. "Just think for one moment: would you stand for someone hovering over your shoulder whilst you took care of your private business?"

Damn, that child knew him well. Perhaps he was concerned but he could not help but sympathise with Aragorn's point of view. He would be just as stubborn as Aragorn was being, were their positions reversed. Releasing a heavy sigh, showing the wavering in his determination, Legolas finally nodded.

"Alright. Fine. Have it your way."

Slowly, Legolas released the boy's arm, watching carefully for signs that he might topple over. But, although Aragorn swayed a little on the spot, he seemed reasonably steady without the aid of support so Legolas stepped away from him.

"I'll wait just on the other side of those bushes. Shout if you need me."

"I won't need you," Aragorn snapped, turning away from the Elf without a second thought. When he didn't hear Legolas walking away from him, the man demanded, "Are you going or not?"

From a distance, Legolas' voice surprised the man by calling from the other side of the dead bushes, "I'm already gone, Aragorn. Stop being so paranoid."

Aragorn was somewhat shocked. He hadn't heard the Elf's retreating footsteps. Normally Legolas wasn't so stealthy around him. "Oh," was all he could think to say in return.

After taking care of the call of nature, he walked back to Legolas, who admirably stood still as he approached, although Aragorn could tell that it was a great struggle for him to not rush forward and start fussing over his charge once more. Aragorn once more rolled his eyes at the Elf's obvious discomfort at not being allowed to help as they walked side by side back to the campsite where the Rangers waited.

Finally giving in, Aragorn held out his arm for Legolas to take. The Elf looked across at his charge in surprise at the gesture. "Go on," Aragorn stressed. "You know you want to."

Legolas gently took the man's arm with a small smile of thanks. The support was hardly necessary; they were barely ten paces from the camp, after all. But, as Legolas helped the young man to carefully sit down on his blanket, he looked satisfied that he had proved useful in some respect. He could do little else other than fuss over his young ward. No pain medication was available and out in the wilds Legolas could do very little but try to keep Aragorn as comfortable as possible. Little did he know that all his fussing was actually making Aragorn feel worse by constantly getting on his nerves.

"How are you doing, Aragorn?" Kinnale called over to him with a wide smile. He understood exactly how the younger man felt and he sympathised greatly with him despite his open amusement. Even now, Legolas was wrapping him up in a blanket - unnecessary in the warm evening.

"Great," Aragorn muttered sardonically, then smiled with false gratitude at Legolas.

Laughter came from the Men, which the Elf chose to completely ignore.

"Legolas?" the leader of the Rangers attracted Legolas' attention, motioning him with his finger to come to him. "Could you come over here for a moment? We need to talk."

Nodding shortly, Legolas got to his feet, pausing with his mouth open to ask Aragorn if he'd be alright in his absence. However, he thought better of it the next instant and withdrew his hand, poised over Aragorn's shoulder to instead stride to the other side of the camp where Kinnale waited wishing to discuss their route.

With Legolas gone from his side, Aragorn shoved the blanket from around himself, resisting the urge to lay his aching head in his hand. Such an action would only worry his guardian and then he'd end up being smothered again.

"And I thought _my_ father was over-protective." Ciaran, Kinnale's son came to Aragorn's side offering a mug of tea to his friend.

"Legolas is_ not_ my father," Aragorn reminded pointedly, taking the proffered tin cup. "This coddling is killing me." He took a sip of the weak herbal tea, brewed from the stash that Legolas had taken from Lothlorien. "I miss the days when he left me to my own devices with a stern, 'you must learn to take care of yourself, child'."

Ciaran merely smiled at that, knowing fully well it was not true.

**OIOI**

**The Black Lands…**

"How could you let this happen? Are you all incompetent?"

The black figure, fairly emanating evil stalked around the black throne room. On the floor, knelt on their knees in humble deference were the commanders of both Orc and Uruk regiments, heads bowed as low as they could get.

"Master, we will find them," the superiorly intelligent commander of the Uruk-hai promised, a bold move given that he was looking at his potential death.

"You have failed so far."

The Orc captain, an ugly, horribly disfigured creature promoted to his position only because it had systematically rid Barad-dur of any potential competition for the command, grinned at his master's words, at the very satisfying dressing down the Uruk commander was receiving. Orc and Uruk, despite being descended from the same twisted place, were ever reluctant allies; they were bound together only by their loyalty to the Dark Lord and the rivalry and hatred between the two races remained intense. To see the larger, stronger and reputedly more intelligent creature who regarded Orcs as nothing more than grunts put on earth as fodder to shield the far superior Uruks was highly entertaining despite the fact that he also was knelt before the Master under the same charge of incompetence.

Glancing to his side at the wickedly grinning Orc, Lurtz, Commander of the Uruk-hai, fought back the nearly overwhelming urge to shed black Orkish blood on the floors of Barad-dur. Only the Dark Lord's presence before them both held his fury in check.

"They were last seen in the Elven realm of Rivendell." The Uruk shuddered, as if the very name of the Elven refuge revolted him. But, then he too grinned, making sure his master was unaware of the disrespectful smirk. "We've received no reports from the Orc patrols since then." Good; an opportunity to deflect the blame onto his Orkish counterpart.

The robed figure stopped pacing and turned slowly to the two subservient creatures cowered before him.

Realising what had just happened, that the treacherous Lurtz had just placed the blame for their lack of success solely on the Orc patrols and thus on him, the Orc's gruesome, crooked grin dropped from his face and he fell suddenly onto his front, hands splayed as best as malformed fingers would allow on the polished floor beneath him.

"It's not true, Master."

Silence fell, so deep that both Orc and Uruk trembled. Then from behind the immense hood, Sauron spoke in a low, menacing voice. "Then you know the location of the child?"

"I…I…Master, I…please."

"Please what? Why is it so difficult?"

"Great One, we…we have many patrols…Only a matter of time," the Orc stuttered out.

The stillness in the throne room was beyond unsettling. The Dark Lord stared. Neither creature could see any eyes in the dark but they felt it. An intense stare that burned into them making it so that it almost physically hurt to bear.

Then, "Time." The Lord of Shadow moved again, limping back to the high throne at the top of the room, but he did not sit, merely continued to stare at those wilting in his presence.

Raising its ugly head, the Orc looked up pleadingly at its master, knowing that Sauron was severely displeased with him. "Master?" it asked in a pathetic squeak of fear.

But Sauron now appeared to be lost deep in thought and did not reply. Painfully slowly, he sank into the seat of his throne, hands gripping at the wide wooden sides. All anger had disappeared now and he was simply contemplative.

Their master was deciding his next move. A genius at work, the Uruk mused in awe.

Long fingers, wrapped in tightly wound, filthy bandages for reasons beyond the understanding of the two cringing slaves, drummed once on the broad arm of the throne and from the shadows in a flurry of black robes swept the master of speech, Sauron's official 'Voice'. Neither Orc nor Uruk had realised that another stood in the room with them and they did not like the presence of this particular servant. The Mouth of Sauron moved to stand directly before the Dark Lord's throne, unheeding of the cowering slave commanders, for the Voice had only time for the Master of the Black Lands himself and no other.

Its hooded head bowed slightly. It was not afraid. It had not wronged the Lord of All, so had nothing to fear from him.

For a long time, the silence, thick and almost unbearable, continued but the servants all remained unspeaking, unmoving.

Then the Dark Lord uttered the command that truly struck terror into the hearts of all others present.

"Summon to me the Nine."

**OIOI**

Legolas stared restlessly upwards to the skies. He could see nothing but darkness though. In the pitch black of night not even the clouds, always hanging low in the sky, were visible even to his excellent vision. These long, uneventful nights were endlessly frustrating for the Elf. Had he been on his own, or even just with Aragorn, he would have insisted upon pushing on through the night hours. But he was not alone any longer. He was constantly surrounded by Rangers and the trainee warriors from Bree. And Legolas found that he no longer felt the master of himself. He followed the command of Kinnale now, at least until the time came when Aragorn took over as the leader of these Men. He did not like feeling out of control – for the one thing in this hateful, unpredictable world he lived in he could control was himself.

The prince of Mirkwood was by no means unused to being under the command of another. All of his early military career he had answered to and followed the orders of his commanding officers and even when he became captain of his own patrol and eventually commander of the Mirkwood Guard he still diligently followed the rule of the king.

But he was not now under the authority of the wise and ancient king of his beloved homeland. He was following a Human, a man he respected but who was nevertheless a fraction of his age, who possessed only a fraction of his experience. Not that Legolas wished to lead; he wanted nothing more than to fade into blissful insignificance amongst these people, free of the pressures of command.

Turning away from such painful and confusing thoughts, Legolas shifted onto his side with a frustrated sigh. He simply could not get comfortable where he laid and sleep would not come to him no matter how hard he willed it. Close to his side, however, Aragorn slept soundly. The past week's travelling had been harder on the young man than the stubborn thing cared to admit. Only when he crawled under his blanket at night and fell almost instantly into exhausted slumber did it show that, even though his wounds were healing adequately, he still tired easily.

Still, the Rangers kept a steady pace and Aragorn refused to request that they slow it for his comfort. And, having learned his lesson the hard way, Legolas did not dare interfere anymore.

Finally admitting that he was unlikely to get any sleep that night, Legolas sat up, clamping his jaws down around a yawn, and ran his fingers roughly through his knotted hair. The Men were all asleep in their small camp and they no longer on high alert for fear of Orc attacks, so they hadn't bothered setting watches lately, meaning that Legolas was most likely the only one awake at this late hour.

Legolas got to his feet, being careful not to disturb Aragorn as he passed, and began wandering silently about, hoping to walk off his restlessness and maybe catch a couple of hours sleep before dawn. He snagged his flask from the bag lying on the ground next to Aragorn and downed half of the water in one go.

With nowhere to wander beyond the limited borders of the campsite, Legolas settled for pacing for a while amongst the sleeping Men, his footfalls so quiet that they did not once disturb those resting on the dusty ground. But that did not distract his mind for long. Seeking something more to occupy his mind and hands at the same time, Legolas sat back down and pulled out of his bag his twin blades and whetstone. The task was well known to him but one that he realised he had not performed recently. It proved a pleasurable relief to make the familiar moves once more. His fingers moved with practiced ease and soon he found himself suitably engaged in the task of caring for his weapons.

Legolas' pleasurable feeling of simple familiarity was interrupted by Aragorn's voice, hardly above a whisper.

"Why aren't you asleep?" the young man asked.

Startled by the unexpected break in the silence, Legolas looked sharply over at the Human. Grey eyes glittered brightly in the light of the fire but Aragorn did not rise. After returning his attention to the blade in his hand, and steadying his pounding heart, Legolas answered, "I could ask the same of you." No response came and Legolas knew that worry now clouded those same eyes. "You did not have another dream?"

"No," Aragorn replied immediately, disconcerted, it seemed, by the very thought. More quietly this time, he added, "Although the last still haunts me even now."

"You should turn your mind from it."

Aragorn snorted in derision and rolled over onto his back. "I wish it were that easy."

"It will get easier with time."

Such a matter-of-fact tone made Aragorn's heart ache with sadness for his guardian. Returning his voice to the level of a whisper, he asked softly, "Is that what you do? Can you so easily turn your mind from the past?"

His hands stilling in their task, Legolas looked up but failed to meet Aragorn's gaze, tilted intensely towards him, searching for what he knew would not be spoken. After a moment of thick silence, the Elf replied, "It is not me I speak of. And your nightmares are not born of the past but rather the future."

"You don't think that makes them more unsettling?"

"No."

Scoffing again and this time sitting up so he was suitably braced to plunge into the upcoming argument, Aragorn demanded, "Why not?"

Legolas abandoned his work then, giving the man his full attention. "Because the future is flexible; it can be altered at will. What you have seen can yet be acted upon and thus changed. The future is nothing to fear because only you can decide how it is to play out. The past, however, is entirely unchangeable. What is done can never be undone and that is what should haunt you." It was said with passion verging on anger and it surprised Aragorn.

"So you're saying that…that I shouldn't be at all concerned that to save your life I may very well surrender myself to Sauron?"

"Yes, that is what I am saying. Because you have been offered a glimpse of this course of action, you can now avoid it."

"And let you die?"

"I've already told you that that's not going to happen."

"How do you know?"

"Because, no matter what anyone tells you, the future is not set in stone. Prophesies are not always reliable, Aragorn."

"Oh, so I suppose I should just ignore it then," Aragorn snapped, uncaring at the volume, which would be enough to wake the Rangers sleeping around them.

"No, you should not ignore it. Learn from it, know what you must do and change the outcome if the time comes when you're presented with the choice," Legolas answered so calmly that it only served to aggravate Aragorn further.

"That easy, is it?"

"The concept is simple – the action itself, I cannot vouch for." Disbelief kept Aragorn mute as he stared openly at Legolas. Picking up his tools once more, the Elf continued softly, "Do not trouble yourself with what lays beyond this night, or behind it. To dwell on either is senseless."

Finally finding his voice again, the bitter retort flew off of Aragorn's tongue before he could think to stop it. "But dwelling, wallowing in the misery of your own past is just fine, is it?"

Once more, Legolas stilled, his eyes trained on his own thin, pale hands and Aragorn knew that what he'd said had been cruel, for Legolas had endured much in his dark past, had suffered more greatly than Aragorn could comprehend at the hands of the Shadow he now so viciously fought.

The night remained quiet and still until Aragorn again shattered the peace. "I didn't mean to…I'm sorry, Legolas."

Legolas did not look up but Aragorn could feel his pain in the wake of the flippant comment. After a while, the Elf shook his head softly and after uncomfortably clearing his throat, said, "It's alright."

"No." Aragorn shifted onto his knees, leaning closer to his clearly upset guardian. "It is really not alright. I had no right to speak to you in that way."

At last, Legolas looked up from his stilled hands, boldly meeting the boy's twinkling eyes. "You've nothing to apologise for. You speak only the truth."

This saddened Aragorn greatly, to hear such defeat in his mentor. Sometimes he wondered how Legolas managed to sustain his usual surety when it seemed that secretly, deep down in his heart, he was consumed by the pain of his past.

"I'm still sorry," Aragorn settled for saying.

"Go back to sleep."

Knowing fully well that further arguing would be pointless, Aragorn laid back down beneath his blanket, although he did not return to sleep. Instead, he watched in silence as Legolas resumed the rhythmic motions of sharpening his blades after a moment.

Legolas paid his ward no attention for the rest of the night. Still, the man could tell that the Elf remained deep in thought. What those thoughts dwelt on though, Aragorn did not know and would probably never know.

**OIOI**

"Excellent stance," Veron complimented, lowering his sword.

Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Aragorn dipped his own weapon, Anduril, which Legolas had finally told him that it was safe to use in front of the Rangers. When the men and women of Bree had first laid eyes on the magnificent sword of kings, they had been mightily impressed for although all the weapons they possessed were extremely well-maintained none of them were as bright and new as Anduril. Also, they could feel the power, the ancient, mystical magic running through the flawless rune-engraved steel blade. They had been curious about its origins and, after Legolas had given him the nod of approval, Aragorn had told his companions the story of how the sword had been re-forged in Rivendell from the shards of Narsil and how the Elves had infused it with their curious magic to make it powerful once more. The Men had been rapt, never having heard such a tale before. They had then taken turns in handling the long sword but it had felt so heavy, so…_wrong _in their hands that they had quickly passed it on then it was handed with no small amount of relief back to its rightful owner.

At Legolas' persistent urging, the moment Aragorn was back on his feet again after his injury, he had asked for the chance to learn the Rangers way of fighting, to refine the techniques taught by his guardian.

For three weeks now, every time they paused to rest in the evening, Aragorn would spend a couple of hours practicing with his sword, getting used to the weight of it in his hands. The Rangers proved themselves to be excellent teachers, having had many years of practical experience, and Aragorn found that he learned a lot from them, perhaps more even than he'd learned from Legolas.

Tonight Aragorn was sparring with Veron, one of the well-muscled twin brothers who'd joined them in Bree. They were undoubtedly the muscle amongst the Rangers; brutes towering well over six-feet tall – taller than Kinnale and only just scraping Legolas' height. Good fighters, they were well-trained in all types of weaponry and were good and patient teachers.

Aragorn liked the brothers. Despite their formidable size, they were friendly, quick to smile and highly amusing to be around.

Their story was like so many others during the times of war. Born just after the Final War that saw the fall of the armies of the Free Peoples, they were taken by their parents to live in the lands just south of the Ranger-protected town of Bree. There, their father had built suitable shelter and planned to raise their children away from the reach of the Shadow. But it was not to be. One night their humble home was raided by Wild Men, their parents murdered and they were left orphaned. For two days, the young boys – just three years old at the time – had hidden away, too scared to move. Terrified and starving, the twins had at last been rescued when a patrol of Rangers came upon them entirely by accident. After their rescue, they had been taken to Bree, at that time little more than a temporary refuge for the Rangers, and raised there until they too became old enough to defend their world and protect others the way they had themselves been protected as children. Indebted to the Rangers, Veron and Carion had become useful members of Bree's ever-growing community, helping to farm and build, offering their services wherever they were needed most. And yet in fighting they had found their true calling, like so many others, wanting to make the Shadow pay for what had been taken from them.

When they had first told Aragorn this story, he had cried for them, understanding all too well the pain of losing a parent and how it felt to then find safety in another. But, the brothers had explained to him in an atypically sombre tone, their stories were by no means unique. However, they were still the lucky ones. They had found a place in the world.

"Not bad, Aragorn," Legolas called to the boy from where he watched at the side lines.

"Thank you." The man took a long drink of water then handed the canteen to Veron.

After drinking his fill, the older Human called between heaving breaths of exertion, "How come you never spar with us, Legolas?" The Elf turned serious blue eyes towards him but didn't get the chance to answer before Aragorn started laughing. Bemused by the unexpected response to his serious inquiry, Veron looked to the younger man. "What?" he demanded. "What's so funny?"

Moving to stand at his guardian's side, Aragorn rested the point of his sword in the dusty ground and answered cockily, "You wouldn't stand a chance."

"Aragorn," Legolas warned his young ward in a low voice, dropping his eyes to the ground again.

Laughing at the response from both the Man and the Elf, Veron raised his sword to his shoulder, nonchalantly asking, "Is that a challenge?"

At the same time as Aragorn exclaimed, "Yes," Legolas sternly answered with a, "No."

Veron laughed and pointed his sword playfully towards the Elf. "Scared?"

Legolas looked up, not at all intimidated. "Of many things, but not of you."

"Then take up the challenge."

Slowly, Legolas' frown morphed into a soft smile and, after casting a quick glance up at his grinning ward, got to his feet. Stooping to retrieve his twin blades, Legolas frowned in annoyance at Aragorn for starting this whole thing in the first place. When Aragorn simply grinned widely at him, the Elf rolled his eyes and walked to the waiting Veron.

"Rules?" the Elf asked, as if he had done this many times before and was simply following proper procedure.

As Veron took up his stance, he explained, "First contact is the winner. No drawing blood."

Still holding his twin knives limply at his sides, Legolas nodded in acceptance of the sparse set of rules. He watched Veron start to move, slowly crossing the Elf's path as if to gauge his reactions. Legolas, however, remained unmoving, weapons not yet even raised. He was very aware that by now the other Rangers had gathered around, eager to see the sparring between Man and Elf for the very first time.

It was a while before Legolas even moved. In the face of Veron's constant movements apparently in an effort to confuse the Elf, Legolas remained perfectly still, watching and waiting. So he was ready when the man finally made his move. Veron lunged suddenly at him but Legolas, much more quick and agile than the big Human, side-stepped and also struck at the same time. The man was an undeniably excellent swordsman though and a second later his blade finally clashed with Legolas' blades and the fight properly began.

Legolas' moves were more fluid than those of his human sparring partner. Blades clashed elegantly as the pair danced around each other. In the heat of the day, sweat poured from both of them but the temperature didn't hinder either of them as it had Aragorn during his practise session. They were seasoned warriors.

The Rangers gathered around them watched with a mixture of anticipation and amazement at the impressive display being performed in front of them. Aragorn, however, watched with abundant pride. He'd sparred with Legolas enough in the past to know his perfected moves well, although if he hadn't known better, he'd have said that Legolas was posturing before the Rangers; showing off for the crowd. It was heartening to see the glint of amusement returning once more to Legolas' eyes.

In the mock fight, it seemed that the two were evenly matched. While Veron had the physical body strength, Legolas was by far the more agile. Still, it was a fascinating match to watch.

Legolas would have won, of that Aragorn was sure. He had gained the upper hand by pushing Veron back with his own sword, his own blades already positioned for the take-down. But suddenly, the Elf froze, his hands dropping to his sides, eyes almost glazing over, as if he was in another place in his mind. So stunned was Veron that he skidded to a halt in the dust mid-attack, uncertain as to whether the Elf was hurt or whether this was some kind of tactic he had not predicted.

"What are you doing?" Veron demanded breathlessly, looking to Aragorn on the side-lines for an explanation for the curious behaviour. However, the younger man could only shrug cluelessly.

Slowly, Legolas then turned on the spot, tilting his face upwards to the skies as he did so. It seemed as if the Elf was in a completely different place now, seeing something invisible to the others. Aragorn had seen that look before, when he had on occasion seen Legolas slip into the state he had called 'reverie', sometimes used instead of true sleep. But surely, the Elf was not sleeping now.

Cautiously, Aragorn stepped over to his guardian, peering into his pale face. "Legolas?" he called softly but his mentor did not so much as blink. "Legolas, what's wrong?" He laid his hand on the Elf's shoulder but still received no reaction whatsoever. Turning to Kinnale, who had also come forward, he looked panicked. "Uh, Legolas? Please, you're scaring me," Aragorn whispered. Then he tightened his hand on Legolas' shoulder and shook the Elf as violently as he could manage, shouting, "Wake up now!"

At this command, Legolas blinked rapidly as if in confusion and looked down at the young man stood before him. Then, suddenly, confusion was replaced by panic and he gripped Aragorn's arm so tightly that it hurt.

"We have to leave," the Elf announced in a shaking voice.

"Leave?" Kinnale echoed.

"Why?" the young man asked even as Legolas strode away to collect their bags.

"Now, Aragorn!"

"Wait a moment, what is going on?" Kinnale asked firmly, trying his best to remain calm in the face of Legolas' obvious state of panic.

Striding towards Aragorn again, Legolas answered cryptically, urgently, "Something has changed."

"What?" Kinnale demanded as Aragorn was roughly dragged away by his guardian.

"I don't know," Legolas breathed shakily and then they realised that Legolas was scared and this unsettled them greatly for they had not seen it before. Aragorn knew better than to doubt his guardian and he took his pack without question when Legolas handed it to him, no longer needing to be pulled along.

"So, you're just going to leave?" Kinnale called after them.

"Come if you want; we're leaving this place now."

For a long moment, the Men stared after the retreating pair, dumbfounded at what had just occurred. In just a little more than a minute they had gone from friendly sparring to mystifying confusion and dread. However, Kinnale quickly gathered his wits about him and turned to his men, calling for them to pack up their things and hurry along. Whatever had spooked Legolas seemed serious enough to take note of and they had to stay near Aragorn anyway.

Legolas walked quickly, frantically even, desperate to simply be moving. He wasn't certain of what he was running from but he recognised, somewhere deep within his Elven subconscious, what had called to him from across the lands and it made his blood run cold. He wanted nothing more than to reach Rohan, their destination, as fast as he possibly could – before whatever was coming caught up with them.

**To Be Continued…**


	31. Wolves Of The Mark

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks so much to everyone out there who has kept reading up to this point. I hope you'll enjoy the next chapter. And a few reviews wouldn't be too bad either!**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 31 – The Wolves of the Mark**

Sauron's eyes, sunken into a pasty face and hidden deep behind the folds of his massive black hood, burned with something akin to sheer maniacal glee. Whilst the rest of his sanctuary had shrunk back and scuttled into the dark corners of the tower in fear of the coming of the Nine Wraiths to Mordor, he had almost rejoiced – as much as he was able – in their arrival.

They were his most treasured servants and they served him more loyally than any other, for they were bound to him in a way that none of the other wretched creatures under his rule were.

These mighty beasts were no mindlessly obedient Orc drones, snivelling and pathetic and grovelling at the feet of Evil. They were the Nazgul, the Ringwraiths, created by evil and cunning by Sauron himself centuries ago. In a wondrous stroke of brilliance on his part, he had gifted nine powerful kings of Men, sorcerers and scholars, nine of the Ring's he'd had forged at the same time as his One precious Ring. Whilst the Elves had hidden their own three Rings away, afraid of using them except in great necessity, the Men had been, just as Sauron had expected, driven close to madness by the immense power bestowed upon them and in their madness, Sauron had tricked them. They grew so greatly attached to the power pulsing relentlessly through their bodies and minds that they became bound, physically and spiritually, to their Rings. It was then oh so easy for Sauron, aided by the power brought to him by his One Ruling Ring, to enslave them all to his will. Over time, they faded from the corporeal world and became but ghosts wandering Arda, bound to their master's service for eternity.

Serving their lord as they did, they had initially been given bodies, hosts – such as they were – to make their presence in the corporeal world easier to bear. But beneath the swathes of black cloth and thick metal armour, there now laid little but Shadow and Darkness. They were, quite literally, wraiths. And they were entirely under the thrall of the Dark Lord, their one master.

Perhaps their very best attribute though, the thing that made them so immensely valuable to Sauron, was that they were and ever would be inexorably tied to the One that ruled over them. Over the centuries, the draw of the One Ring, Sauron's most precious possession lost, had lessened for them but although they could not pinpoint its exact location, infuriating them to no end, they felt its subtle tug on their minds constantly and fear of this most powerful weapon kept them tethered securely to the Darkness. They were simply incapable of betrayal.

Now, these big creatures of pure Shadow were knelt in a strictly organised line before the throne of their master. They feared no other man or beast walking on Arda but before their master, they quailed like frightened animals. They were silent and still, genuflecting before the only one they feared, hooded heads bent in deference and veneration, huge black-bladed swords held point-down in clawed, armoured hands as if in salute to their master.

Before them, Sauron stared intensely. What he saw knelt before him, however, were not black-robed creatures but rather pale ghostly shadows, caught in the purgatory between the spirit world and the land of the living.

There was no doubt in Sauron's mind of their unswerving allegiance to him and they mercifully did not lower themselves to squabbling as his lesser servants did even in his presence. He liked their calmness. It had taken them mere hours, upon being summoned, to reach their master from where they resided in the Tower of Minas Morgul, the once Human-ruled Tower of Minas Ithil. The take-over of that great Human fortress was a long time before the beginning of this new War he'd started, back when he'd first come to power and before that awful Human king had robbed him of his One in battle. Still, the Tower had ever been a beacon of evil in a world that had become infected by the Light in his absence and so it remained until this day. It was second only to his own tower of Barad-Dur in Mordor.

Yes, Sauron liked his enslaved wraiths above all the other sycophants who readily bowed before him, for they were untainted by the desire, guilt or greed so plainly evident in the others. They were his purest.

"Across my vast domains travels a man, a descendant of that most dreadful House of Elendil. He plans even now to unite those who would oppose me." Silence; they were listening for their orders with great patience born out of respect and fear. "My scouts inform me that he already carries…the Blade, re-forged by the Elves dwelling deep within the Sanctuary of the Half-Elven." It hurt him to think of that wretched sword, which had long ago stolen from him his most precious possession. Had he been able to feel pain as the corporeal beings of this world felt pain, he was sure that the long fingers on the frail hand of the body he now possessed would have now been throbbing at the memory of that last fateful strike. Pulling himself back to the present and away from the bleak past and the pain of loss, the Dark Lord continued, "With the boy travels the one who calls himself his…'protector' – a fool-hardy Elf born of Mirkwood."

At this, the Wraiths all shuddered and hissed in unison, as if the very mention of one of the Firstborn, the Valar's most beloved and blessed first creations, burned them. They let out long, high-pitched hisses and shook their heads as though to dislodge the notion from their blighted minds. They were not afraid of the Elves – they were afraid of nothing - but the Light inside Iluvatar's beloved unsettled them in much the same way as any Elf who had the misfortune to stumble across the path of one of the Nazgul would also shudder in horror.

As the Light would tremble before the Shadow, so the Shadow still shuddered at the Light - a weakness indeed for Sauron's otherwise unsurpassable servants.

"The boy is said to be growing ever more powerful. He opposes me, blatantly stands against me. Bring the boy to me alive. The Elf is yours to do with as you will."

With the order they had come for issued, the Nine rose to their feet in silence. Sauron walked awkwardly towards them, coming to a halt before the tallest.

"Do not fail me in this task, Loyal One."

The Wraith bowed its head, and from beneath the massive hood, answered in a deep, hissing voice, "My Master."

This leader of the Nine, the Witch-king from Angmar, was the most powerful of them all and remained the most terrifying of all Sauron's servants, presumed by many to be second only to the Dark Lord himself. He would not fail because the only thing in this world or the world beyond he was afraid of was currently stood before him.

So his master commanded, so it would be done.

**OIOI**

"Wow!" Aragorn exclaimed breathlessly as he looked out over the vast plain, lit now with dull grey light, laid before him. In spite of the dull day, it was impressive in its sheer size. He turned to his guardian, coming up behind him, and asked, "This is Rohan?"

"Part of the lands of Rohan, yes," Legolas answered, looking out across at the dusty plains, hazy in the grim daylight.

"Have you ever been here before?"

"No, never."

"So, you've never actually met a man of Rohan?" Aragorn then asked as they started walking down the side of the hill they had peaked.

"I can't say that I have."

"And you've no idea whether they'll be welcoming?"

"No."

"Or if anyone even lives in Rohan anymore?"

"Kinnale has sent out patrols here before and there have been people living close-by. As to whether they're friendly or not…we shall have to wait and see."

"Comforting."

Legolas smiled wryly across at the young man. He had been impressed by his ward recently. Aragorn had been fitting in very nicely with the Rangers, getting to know them in a way he would never have dreamed of when first meeting them shyly on the peak Weathertop.

It continually amazed Legolas how much Aragorn had grown since they'd first met on the Old Forest Road almost eighteen years ago. That scared, dreadfully timid child he had dragged from the side of his father's hastily covered shallow grave had grown into a relatively confident young man, able and willing to interact with others even though Legolas was certain that such social skills had not been taught by him. And all this had happened in such a short time - or a short time for the Elves anyway. Legolas' own youth and growth had lasted centuries. To watch a child grow so rapidly right before his eyes was little short of amazing to the ancient Elf.

Kinnale came up behind Aragorn and clapped him on the back, shoving the boy forward slightly with his strength. "Don't fear, Aragorn. We'll protect you," he laughed teasingly.

Aragorn scowled at him in spite of his playful words.

"Tell Aragorn more about Rohan, Father," Ciaran ordered his father excitedly as he caught up with them. He had never been close to these lands before either but he always liked to hear his father's exaggerated tales of the foreign places he had visited in his time running with the Rangers.

"Rohan was once the home of the mighty Rohirrim, the Horse Lords."

"What's a horse?" Aragorn asked innocently, much to the surprise of everyone else around him.

Ciaran, stunned by the ignorance of his friend, asked almost mockingly, "You don't know what a horse is?"

Defensively, Legolas answered sharply for his ward, "How would he know? He has never seen one in his life."

Tense silence fell between them after that short exchange as it always did when Legolas challenged anyone within the select group of Men. Thankfully though, Kinnale stepped in to break the unease, explaining patiently in spite of his surprise at Aragorn's ignorance. "It is an animal, Aragorn, bred for riding ride. They are strong, fast and easy to train, making for perfect beasts of burden. The Rohirrim were master breeders and possessed some of the finest of that species in all the world, hence them being adorned with the name of 'Horse Lords'. The Rohirrim liked to live simple lives, which mostly worked to their advantage when the War came to the lands of Men. At first they posed little threat to the Shadow but they remained fiercely loyal to the Steward of Gondor and when he called upon them to join the fight, they went willingly.

"They left behind only those who could not fight. But by going into battle, by being loyal to their race, the Rohirrim drew attention to their lands and the Dark Lord razed their homes to the ground."

"How did they survive then?" Aragorn asked, enchanted by the story of his race.

"By hiding. You see, the people of Rohan's best defence was a great, impregnable fortress called Helm's Deep. Beneath that fortress lays a vast network of caves. The Orcs did not know of their existence and so passed the caves by as they attacked and destroyed the homes and defenders of Rohan. A few Rohirrim were saved but in the wake of the devastation wreaked upon their home, they were forced to live scattered around the lands and horribly poor."

"It is much the same across all the lands," Legolas put in then.

Kinnale had to nod in agreement. "Struggling to survive, what remained of the people of Rohan became reclusive. They have since tolerated little by the way of interference from us, even though we offered them aid and even inclusion in the Rangers for their warriors if they wished it. But they are suspicious of outsiders, not trusting anyone but themselves."

"That's very reassuring," Aragorn muttered but was silenced by a sideways warning glance from his guardian.

"It may seem strange to you that they are so fearful of others, even their own kind, but it is nevertheless quite understandable. Abandoned by their brothers in Gondor in their time of need, they were left to defend themselves, their own homes and lands, against the unimaginable force of the Shadow."

"But those who remain are good, strong fighters, right?" Aragorn asked eagerly, searching for some small glimmer of hope in Kinnale's grim explanation of the people of Rohan.

"Primitive, I would say."

"Primitive? What does that mean?"

"They make do with what they have. Most have not had to fight but in simple defence of their homes. If I recall correctly, they have simple weaponry; spears, daggers and the like."

Aragorn stopped suddenly and the other three next to him followed suit in surprise at the abrupt halt.

"What?" Ciaran asked curiously at the odd expression on Aragorn's face as he stared at Kinnale.

For a moment, Aragorn was silent, looking to both Kinnale and Legolas in turn. Then, he spoke, scathingly, demanding, "Why on earth are we going there, then?"

"Aragorn…" Legolas started, hoping to settle the boy down.

"We're going to find a reclusive set of disorganised people who have no desire to fight, possess no weapons of significance and despise any and all outsiders. And you're expecting them to, what, join with us to go up against the might of the Shadow that has already defeated them once?" Aragorn shouted in a mixture of incredulity and irritation. "It is surely more likely that they'll simply chase us away with their 'spears and daggers and the like'."

Legolas stepped over to him and said soothingly, "Would you please calm down? We're not searching these people out on merely a hopeful whim. They want their freedom back as much as anyone and we are their best chance at that. And skills like fighting and weaponry can be taught and learnt."

"You don't know that they'll be willing."

"Not for certain, no. But we have to at least try. If they decide against joining us then we have lost nothing but a short walk."

Sometimes, Aragorn pondered as his anger was successfully doused by Legolas' calm words, he considered his guardian to be a little too calm in the face of such adversity. But then, Legolas did not carry the burden that Aragorn did. However, just once in a while, Aragorn wished that Legolas would just leave him to fret. He did appreciate the Elf's ability to remain steady in the face of adversity but Aragorn did not possess that ability himself and this frustrated him more than anything.

For the moment though, Aragorn sighed and hung his head. "Alright," he conceded softly.

Legolas patted his shoulder then pushed him gently to start walking again.

"Do not worry, Aragorn," Kinnale spoke up again to lighten the mood, "the Rohirrim are not completely without value. They may surprise you yet."

Aragorn offered him a small smile, feeling a little sheepish at his snap reaction to the Ranger's truthful tale.

**OIOI**

Aragorn held his stiff, gloved fingers above the small fire, wriggling them to restore feeling to the frozen tips. Up until now, the weather had been surprisingly temperate despite the fact that winter was coming upon them. A couple of days ago though, a hard frost had covered the plains and the temperature had rapidly plummeted until it resembled proper winter. The day's walking had created some warmth but as they were forced to pause for the night, the cold was settling in and Aragorn found himself shivering in spite of the heat from the fire.

"Here, wrap this around yourself," Legolas offered, sitting down next to his ward and throwing a blanket around his shoulders. When Aragorn made no move to comply, Legolas did it for him, pulling the threadbare piece of cloth around him tightly, pulling it into a bunch just below his ward's chin. "Carion is making some hot tea. That should warm you up," the Elf assured in concern, rubbing some heat into Aragorn's hands for him.

Through chattering teeth, Aragorn complained, "I wish we didn't have to stop all the time."

Legolas' eyes shifted over to where Kinnale was distributing the watches between the Rangers for the night. "Yes, well, you know these Men."

Glancing over to his guardian, Aragorn asked, "Do you ever wish it was just the two of us still?"

"Not really."

Aragorn was surprised at this. He'd always considered Legolas to be an essentially solitary creature, certainly the Elf had always shunned the Humans' company when in Bree and Aragorn was fairly sure that had he never jumped into rescue him and Arathorn over eighteen years ago, then he would still be walking up and down the Old Forest Road on his own.

"You don't ever think we'd have been better off on our own?" Aragorn asked in a whisper so that the Rangers couldn't hear his words.

"There are some things just too big for only two people to handle."

Despite his constant shivering, Aragorn smiled. "Come on, I know how much this frustrates you."

"I'm sorry?"

"Walking at this pace, stopping every single night – it frustrates you to no end."

Legolas chuckled, rubbing his own hands together now to warm his cold fingers. "I suppose so. But we have gained much from our friends. I concede I was unimpressed with them at first but…they have grown on me during our time together."

"Just like I grew on you," Aragorn grinned at him.

"Indeed."

"Tea!" Carion, Veron's twin brother, announced with a mix of cheerfulness and shivering, handing both a tin cup of tea each. "And I took the liberty of adding a little nip to preserve warmth." He winked at them, pulling a flask of the potent alcohol the Rangers loved so much from the inside pocket of his coat to show them his ingenious idea to stave off the cold a little more.

"Excellent," Legolas dead-panned - having no taste for the vile drink.

A little more cheerily as the hot cup warmed his hands, Aragorn said, "Thank you, Carion."

"Keep warm," Carion called back as he hurried away towards the bigger fire around which more of the Men were gathered.

"He's kidding, right?" Aragorn grumbled before sipping at his tea gratefully. Immediately, he felt the rush of warmth trickling through him and his shivering eased a little. Beside him, Legolas was sat turning the cup around in his hands, the liquid inside remaining untouched. He was looking into the steaming tea, seemingly lost deep in thought. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Legolas muttered distractedly.

"Then why aren't you drinking your tea?"

As if his memory had been suddenly jogged by the question, Legolas raised the tin cup to his lips and took a long sip. Immediately, he grimaced at the foul taste, tea tainted with alcohol. The herbs were almost completely swamped by the strong, burning taste of the 'nip' of alcohol Carion had added.

"Legolas, what are you thinking about?" Aragorn asked quietly after a while.

"I'm not thinking about anything in particular."

Laughing quietly to himself, Aragorn concluded, "That's not true."

Smiling, Legolas had to admit, "No, you're right, it's not."

"Then what?"

"It's nothing of import."

"Are you thinking about the Rohirrim?"

Blue eyes turned to him, shining with vague amusement. "Aragorn, I am not thinking about anything – other than idly wondering how much alcohol Carion has ruined this tea with."

"Oh."

"What are _you_ thinking of?" Legolas realised that the man had been setting him up to return the question and, noting Aragorn's increasing discomfort at being forced to hold his silence until the invitation to speak with given, he decided to put him out of his misery.

"Of what we do next."

"Next?"

"After we find these people, if we get them to join us; what do we do then?"

"I see," Legolas sighed. He had been expecting Aragorn to ask that question and he himself had spent considerable time during their journey so far pondering upon that very problem. The conclusion that he had come to was not yet for Aragorn's ears, so he simply dodged the question and tricky answer with a vague, non-committal reply, "We will worry about that when we come to it. One problem at a time."

"Right; one problem."

"Try not to worry about it."

Finishing off his tea, Aragorn grumbled, "That's easy for you to say."

Legolas laid his hand on Aragorn's shoulder to placate him. "I know it seems that way and that everything is so uncertain, but all will be well. Have faith that things will work out."

"Why? They never have before."

"I don't know. I don't think we've done too badly so far."

"Would you please stop that?" Aragorn snapped back at him.

"Stop what?"

"Being so optimistic all of a sudden. It's creepy."

At this observation, Legolas laughed brightly, a sound that Aragorn had not heard from the Elf in a very long time and he couldn't help but grin at the noise. "My apologies. From now on I shall return to being dour and serious around you once more if it would put you at ease."

It was said in good humour and Aragorn couldn't help but laugh at him. This side of Legolas was a rare thing to witness and, although he had to admit that on occasion it could be disconcerting to see his keeper in such a different light, Aragorn did like it when his guardian momentarily let down his guard around him. He imagined this to be how Legolas had acted before the War, before he was weighed down by circumstance. This was Prince Legolas; confident, light-hearted leader, whom unfortunately Aragorn had never gotten to really know. It was a pity that this was such a rarity.

"How much alcohol did Carion add to your tea exactly?" Aragorn demanded teasingly. "Certainly enough to addle your mind somewhat at any rate."

Abruptly, the laughter died on Legolas' lips and he suddenly sat bolt upright.

Thinking that he'd upset his mentor with his mocking words, Aragorn insisted, "I was only jesting, Legolas."

"Be quiet!" Legolas hissed harshly at him, throwing out his arm towards the man as if to keep him seated.

The man knew that tone well. Something was wrong. He sat completely silent and still as Legolas seemed to listen intently beyond the droning noise of the Rangers, trying to discern what pricked on the edges of his senses, warning him of imminent danger in the vicinity. Aragorn's eyes roamed about across the dark plains, as did Legolas', but neither could see anything beyond the haze of light provided by the fire.

With confusion still on his face, Legolas relaxed a little and Aragorn followed suit.

Shaking his head, the Elf said, "Something is wrong but I cannot…I cannot tell what it is."

This was deeply worrying. Legolas' senses rarely proved wrong and Aragorn trusted his instincts implicitly. That the Elf could not determine what exactly was different about their surroundings was disconcerting. To both of them, the Plains of Rohan – or the Mark as Kinnale had called it – were foreign, unknown territory, they had no idea what dangers lurked across them.

Uneasy now, Legolas smoothly got to his feet and Aragorn suddenly noticed that he held his knives tightly in his hands although he hadn't seen the moment when his guardian had pulled them from their resting place in his bag. It was unsettling. Legolas was anticipating an attack, even if he didn't know from what. Dropping his empty cup to the ground, Aragorn dove for his bag and yanked Anduril free from its bindings. He stood tall beside Legolas, braced and ready as the Elf cocked his head to one side, listening attentively for any clue as to what disturbed his senses. Aragorn felt quite useless beside him. He did not possess the Elf's enhanced senses and could feel nothing out of the ordinary but for Legolas' tension.

By this time, some of the Rangers had also noticed the Elf's unease and stopped to look at them in confusion.

Aragorn turned to the man nearest him and barked, "Get Kinnale."

Startled, the man ran off, calling for his leader to come quickly.

"Do you know yet what comes?" Aragorn asked of the possibility of advancing danger.

Far from relaxing at the lack of further clues, Legolas was growing tenser with every passing second, no doubt accentuated by his frustrations at not being able to pinpoint the threat that tugged on the edges of his consciousness.

"No, I don't."

As Aragorn anxiously looked in the direction Legolas gazed, Kinnale, slightly breathless from running towards them, came to a halt beside them. Trying to catch his breath, he asked, "What is it? What's wrong?"

"We don't know," Aragorn admitted, glancing to his side at Legolas. "But it's something."

Still trying to catch his breath, Kinnale looked from the young man to the Elf. He had no reason to trust in Legolas' what seemed to be mystical judgements that something was wrong around them but he felt compelled to take heed all the same. Casting Aragorn a quick glance, the commander turned to the intrigued Rangers watching them.

"Prepare for an attack," the commander ordered.

Although surprised because there was no obvious danger near their small encampment, the Men had practiced this drill many times before on the road at Kinnale's insistence so were able to prepare for an attack quickly and efficiently.

The camp momentarily bustled with activity as men and women gathered up their weapons in preparation, not pausing to question the order, baseless though it may have been. Then eerie silence followed. They waited expectantly. And Legolas listened.

At long last, the sounds made themselves more evident, even to the Humans amongst them. Snarling, hissing noises accompanied by the pounding of many large feet across the frozen earth of the Mark.

"What is that?" Aragorn asked his mentor, fear hidden in his voice.

"I don't know."

They didn't have to wait too long to discover what the disturbance that unsettled Legolas so. Orcs, riding astride huge wolf-like beasts, barrelled suddenly into the Human camp. It was such a shock, this unexpected mode of attack, that despite the vague warning Legolas had provided them with the Rangers were still taken by surprise. The heavy creatures pounced upon them without hesitation, snarling and slashing with long teeth and deadly-sharp claws. Neither Legolas nor Aragorn had ever seen anything of the like before but they did not dwell for more than a second on their surprise but rather launched into the attack upon this new enemy.

For all the Rangers' diligent training, nothing could have prepared them for this most unprecedented of attacks. The Orcs who leapt down from their enormous steeds were fiercely vicious but they were easy to tackle at least. The monsters who carried them, however, were very nearly impossible to attack with the knives and swords carried by the Rangers of the North.

Within moments, the beasts had trampled through the whole camp, wrecking it entirely and taking more than a few Rangers out in the process. The scent of Human blood, which matted in their thick brown fur and dripped from their razor-sharp teeth, drove them wilder still and they backtracked, attacking even more fiercely the second time around, driven by their insatiable blood lust, wanting to taste the thick red liquid again, just as they had been bred to. Whilst their brutal Orkish riders slashed down at the desperately fighting Rangers, the wolves went straight for the Human throats, tearing and ripping at the tender flesh of their prey with relish.

Copious blood was spilled on the battlefield, more red than black. For the first time, the Rangers were on the losing side and hopelessness began to set in amongst them even as they fought for their lives.

Less than five minutes later, Legolas paused in his hacking and slashing motions at the enemies amongst them to take stock of their situation. There was just no way that they could win this fight, he realised with no small amount of panic. And neither could he sound the retreat. On the great, barren plains of the Mark, there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He searched around him for Aragorn but amidst the chaos and in the darkness he could see hardly anything except for the enormous black, brown and increasingly red hulks of the attacking wolves.

Forcing himself to keep calm, the Elf told himself rationally that standing still in the middle of such a fearsome and bloody battle was by no means a good idea. The best way to get out of this was to win against these agents of Shadow but that wasn't going to be achieved by standing about pondering upon how hopeless the situation was or by blindly and inaccurately hacking away at the beasts and hoping it might have some effect on the thick hides. If only they could dispose of those blood-thirsty wolves then the Orcs would be easy to dispatch without their mounts to protect them.

Suddenly, Legolas moved again, running through the masses of fighting Orcs and Men and dodging around the beasts. It was tricky and risky in the dark but he managed to locate his bag amongst the destruction wrought by the monsters. Dropping his knives to the ground, Legolas dragged out his bow and the few arrows he possessed. If knives wouldn't do the trick then he had to adapt his technique.

None of the Orcs paid him any attention. One man cowering on the ground in the midst of battle was of little consequence whilst strong Rangers tried constantly to strike them down. So, taking the opportunity, Legolas snatched up his twin knives; he wasn't going to completely abandon his most valuable weapons. Running back through the slaughter, Legolas headed for the edge of the battlefield to present himself with as wide a target as he could.

His shots were surprisingly accurate considering he had not used this particular weapon much of late – the Rangers did most of the hunting these days so he had not had much of a chance to practice with his second-hand bow. But past experience now served him well and he felt a certain thrill in executing the familiar movements of firing fast arrows into the chaotic field of battle. The massive wolves made for easy targets given their size, even as they moved in a lumbering, ungainly manner across the site of the battle, so they were fairly hard to miss even without perfect accuracy.

When the first creature went down, a crudely-made shaft penetrating its thick hide at the breast, hardly anyone noticed. Everyone on both sides was far too busy to be concerned that one of the beasts had fallen, crushing and suffocating its Orkish rider beneath it. By the third shot Legolas fired from the darkness, the Orcs, some of them at least, had cottoned onto what was going on. They searched the area beyond the camp with glowing yellow eyes, looking for the shooter attacking them from the side-lines. But Legolas remained perfectly concealed by the thickness of the night, able to see the targets only because they were illuminated by the fires that still managed to burn around the camp.

Even with his impressive hit-rate, Legolas knew this would not be enough to secure victory for the Humans. He had a limited supply of arrows and he realised that it would only be a matter of time before the Orcs pinpointed his whereabouts and took him out. The Men were by now only just holding their own against the monsters of Mordor and the Orcs still had the upper hand.

Reaching blindly down to the pile of arrows he'd placed at his side for easy access, Legolas' searching fingers felt that there was but one shaft remaining. Stringing the arrow, Legolas took careful aim and killed another of the massive beasts, leaving six of the creatures still standing. Wishing that he could have disposed of more of the Enemy was pointless though, so, without pause, Legolas discarded his now useless bow and retrieved his white knives from his side instead. He plunged back into the fray without hesitation.

Soon, Legolas was once again over-run by Orcs. He still had no idea where Aragorn was but in the melee of battle it would have been foolish to cease fighting and begin searching for the Man. He was tiring, having exerted himself shooting into the seething mass of Orcs, but he forced his aching muscles to continue moving. Stopping now would mean death.

"Legolas!" Aragorn screamed as loud as he could from the other side of the battlefield. Having been engaged in his own fight against these most vicious Orcs, he'd lost track of his guardian until the wolves, for they looked more like the creatures of the night than they did mere dogs, started falling, then he had known that Legolas was well.

The Elf would be far from 'well' in a moment though. A massive wolf was crouched, ready to pounce on the Elf and Legolas seemed to be completely unaware of it, locked in battle as he was with three Orcs at once.

The warning went unheard above the noise but there was no way Aragorn would be able to reach his guardian in time to prevent the inevitable strike. Nevertheless, he screamed another warning in the hope that a second might be more effective.

Legolas turned, not to the sound of Aragorn's shout but at the feel of hot, wet breath on his neck. One of the huge wolves, long fangs bared and dripping with fresh Human blood, was stood before him, sniffing the Elf with surprising patience given the glint of hunger in its yellow eyes. The Orcs that Legolas had been fighting abandoned him with ghoulish grins; they knew the wolf would finish the Elf off and they need not expend any more energy on him.

Bracing himself for the attack, Legolas raised his knives in a defensive position to the snarling creature. As if it sensed his readiness and wanted a fair fight, the beast tensed then pounced.

Legolas fought the instinct to close his eyes as the thing came at him, for he knew that his two long knives, sharp and deadly as they were, were not an even match for the teeth and claws and insatiable blood-lust of the heinous monsters of Shadow.

**To Be Continued…**


	32. The Rohirrim

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks so much for all your lovely reviews. Keep 'em coming for this new chapter. Enjoy.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 32 – The Rohirrim**

**OIOI**

Before Legolas could put his theory that there was no hope left in this battle to the test, the creature coming at him yelped in stunned pain then fell with a loud thud, dead, just inches from Legolas' feet. Astonished, the Elf looked about himself in pure confusion, unused knives still raised before his body in defence. From the darkness of the Plains, a huge stallion charged abruptly into the battle, leaving Legolas to jump back out of its way or get trampled by wide pounding hooves. This one horse was followed closely by yet more others. All were ridden by ragged but proud-looking Men bearing spears and bows. A terrible screeching sounded as the Men pierced the remaining beasts with their spears and shot at the surprised Orcs with long, well-crafted arrows. Clearly they had done this before. They were practiced in the art of slaughtering the Enemy upon the wide open plains.

Not one of the Rangers was hit in the assault, although like Legolas, they were forced to scramble out of the way of the hooves of the great war horses as they charged blinding through.

It seemed that within seconds the Orcs and the savage beasts they rode were all slaughtered and the chaos of battle diminished if not to quiet then at least to some semblance of order. The men on horseback took the time to check that all the Orcs and their beasts were truly dead, blatantly ignoring the Rangers who remained on the side-lines, nervous of these newcomers.

Once certain that all the allies of Sauron were dead, one of the horsemen dismounted, throwing the reins up to one of his other men to take so that the skittish mount didn't bolt, then turned to the men stood around.

"What business do you have in the Mark?" a strong, deep voice demanded to the Men in general, uncertain who their leader was as of yet. He did not seem pleased by the presence of the strangers on the plains, however, his bearded chin set in defiance as he peered at them through the darkness.

After sharing an uncertain glance with Janor, Kinnale hesitantly stepped forward; he had to speak for his people, after all.

"I am Kinnale, sir, of the Rangers of the North, hailing from the township of Bree." He paused then, waiting for any sign of recognition or perhaps a similar introduction from the other. Neither was forthcoming, however, so he prompted politely, "And who am I addressing, sir?"

The tall man looked Kinnale up and down with open suspicion bordering on contempt, deciding whether or not to answer with a name. Apparently, he decided against an introduction in the end in spite of Kinnale's politeness in answering his own demand, saying instead, "We do not abide outsiders in our lands. Spies of the Enemy are all about us."

"We are no spies," Kinnale stated coldly, surprised by the allegation. As he continued, he stood taller, refusing to be intimidated. "We are Rangers, servants of the Light. And I ask again: who are you, sir?"

The man stared at him distrustfully for a long moment, glanced back at the others in his group as if silently asking their opinions even though none of them spoke in response. All looked similarly uncertain. Much as the Rangers had done when they discovered Legolas and Aragorn upon Weathertop, it was not expected to meet strangers in this day and age. The unknown must be treated with extreme caution, always.

When he turned his eyes back to Kinnale, he seemed to take the time to weigh up his options, carefully considering the consequences of trusting these so called 'Rangers of the North'. Clearly, he had never heard of the roaming Human protectors so was naturally distrustful of them.

As the horseman was considering all he had been told, Legolas moved quietly around the skittish war horses the Men of the Mark rode. He had spotted Aragorn standing amongst the Rangers and he wanted to be sure that the man was unhurt after the battle. When he reached the young man, who was so busy staring in wonder and astonishment at the Men and their steeds that he hadn't even noticed Legolas' quiet approach, the Elf laid his hand on the man's shoulder. Aragorn startled at the unexpected touch and turned abruptly but relaxed when he realised it was simply his guardian.

"Are you alright?" Legolas asked his ward in a whisper so he didn't disturb the contemplative silence.

"Fine. You?" Legolas just nodded in response and looked back to the horsemen. Following his example, Aragorn asked in a whisper, "Who are they?"

"Well, I'm just guessing but I think it's a fair bet that they're the Rohirrim we have been searching for."

Aragorn nodded in agreement; he too had made that same supposition. It was indeed a safe bet that they had found the objects of their searching.

Heaving a sigh, the tall horsemen finally reached up to remove his helmet, revealing a head of scruffy blonde hair beneath the dented helm. "I am Eomer, commander of the Rohirrim."

At long last, an introduction. Kinnale bit his tongue against that particular retort and instead nodded politely in greeting.

"We have cause to thank you, Commander Eomer. Had you not arrived when you did, I fear we would have lost this battle," Kinnale smiled, demeanour looser now that the immediate threat had passed.

Sternly, Eomer nodded and said without humour, "I think you would have too." Ignoring Kinnale's frown at the cold comment, Eomer turned to his men. "Burn the corpses."

"Commander, we have been searching for you," Kinnale told him before he could stride away in order to help his men with the grisly yet satisfying task.

"Why?" Eomer demanded suspiciously.

Noticing that the other Rohan men were watching them closely, the commander of the Rangers stepped closer to Eomer. "Could we speak in private?"

Eomer looked reluctant to speak with the Ranger alone but after staring for a long moment into Kinnale's eyes to check for sincerity, and perhaps weighing up whether he could win against him should it come down to a fight, he finally nodded in acceptance. Gesturing vaguely for his men to continue with the grim task of clearing the battlefield, he followed Kinnale away from the others.

Aragorn watched them go then turned to Legolas, unsure as to whether he, as their future king, should join the two commanders; the conversation was bound to turn to him at some point and he should like some say in it. Legolas shook his head softly though. This was a talk between two commanders and they should be left to it for the time being.

The Men of the Rohirrim cleaned up the mess of the battle efficiently, suggesting that this too was not an unfamiliar task to them. After a while of standing around in uncertain hesitation and feeling utterly useless, the Rangers went to help, taking the opportunity to assess their own losses to the Orcs. Mercifully, they had been relatively few. They had been prepared for the attack, thanks mostly to Legolas' early warning, or the aftermath could have been so much worse. The two sets of Men worked together in mutually suspicious silence, still uncertain whether they stood together as friends or potential enemies. Their respective commanders were still thrashing that subject out away from their ears.

Whilst Legolas watched the Men clean up the campsite with shrewd eyes, Aragorn stared over to where Kinnale was calmly explaining their situation to the dour blonde commander of the Rohirrim. And it didn't seem to be going particularly well for the Ranger. It wasn't long before Eomer grew angry at what was being said and began shouting his disapproval, although Aragorn was still too far away to hear exactly what he was yelling about. When Eomer sharply snapped his head to the side to look at him though, Aragorn knew that the horseman had just been told of his true identity and lineage in the race of Men. The blonde man did not seem pleased by the revelation, however, and promptly turned back to Kinnale and started shouting again, gesturing wildly with both hands in Aragorn's general direction. Embarrassed that he was the cause of this tension between the two commanders, Aragorn looked away from them just as Legolas went to step away from him.

"Where are you going?" Aragorn asked him urgently, not wanting to be left alone right then, not when there was such an air of hostility about the camp and when he was the object of said hostility.

"To see if I can recover any of my arrows. Stay here; I'll be back in a moment."

Left on his own now, Aragorn wrapped his arms around himself protectively and glanced back over at Kinnale and Eomer, still deep in conversation.

Meanwhile, Legolas stepped carefully over Orc carcasses to reach the huge wolves, hoping to find that some of his arrows had survived the attack and might be used again. As he yanked loose those shafts that had not been snapped or shattered upon impact, Legolas took a moment to examine the great beasts that the Orcs had ridden into battle on. They were like nothing he had ever seen before, not even in Mirkwood where left in the dark depths of the forest the wild wolves had grown to impressively large sizes. These animals were at least three times as big as anything he'd seen in the forest. With long, sharp claws and fangs that could effortlessly rip clean through even the toughest flesh, they were well-muscled, fast killing machines.

"They're called Wargs," a tentative voice came from Legolas' side and he looked up in surprise to find a young man with hair the colour of straw had paused in clearing the Orc filth away and was watching him.

"Wargs?" Legolas repeated the unfamiliar name softly to himself. He prided himself on having a fair knowledge of the beasts of the wilds but he had never heard of anything called a Warg before. "I have never heard of such a creature," he told the man bluntly.

"Just because you haven't heard of them doesn't mean they don't exist," the Rohirrim told him with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders.

Shaking his head, Legolas muttered, "I didn't mean to imply…" He cleared his throat, giving up on an apology and instead asked, "These are creatures of Sauron's creation?"

"Not the Dark Lord, no. Someone closer to home."

Legolas frowned, not sure to whom the man was referring. "If not Sauron then who?"

"The same one who sent this filth," the man spat, kicking at the dead Orc lying by his feet. At Legolas' continued confusion, the man bent and retrieved the helmet of the dead creature, chucking it to the Elf for him to examine for himself. Legolas looked at the crude metal helmet, so obviously a creation of the Shadow, immediately noticing the markings on the front. "The White Hand of Saruman," the man of Rohan explained simply as if everyone should know of the symbol, and perhaps in the lands of the Rohan everyone did know.

Legolas looked up sharply at the familiar name. "Saruman? The White Wizard?"

"That's the one."

"But that is…"

"From his tower in Isengard he sends these monsters to besiege out people and in the bowels of his black tower he creates other such monstrosities; abominations, too terrible to imagine."

Legolas was stunned by this unexpected news of one of the Istari turning to the Shadow. "But he is a Wizard, one of the Istari, allied only to the Valar and sent to Arda to serve and protect its peoples."

The young man scoffed bitterly at the Elf's idealistic words, having seen many times in spite of his few years the falsity in them. "Great. Say, why don't you march on over to Isengard and remind him of that allegiance? I'm sure he'd appreciate it." And with that final scathing comment, the young man returned to his grim work, back turned on the Elf in distaste.

For a while, Legolas stood holding the helmet emblazoned with the telling White Hand, loosely in his grasp, considering what he had just been told about the Istari. If that order had indeed been poisoned by the Shadow then things were worse than he had imagined.

He had to confess that he had no definite idea what had happened to any of the Istari during the immense violence of the Final War. The only one he could take a guess at was Gandalf the Grey; for he had once known the Grey Pilgrim well, having met with him on his numerous visits to Mirkwood when he passed through close to the palace and they had become good friends in those times before Darkness took over the lands. Gandalf was a Ring-bearer though. Cirdan, the Elf-lord of the Grey Havens, had gifted to him the Ring of Narya, the Ring of Fire, for his safe-keeping. Legolas knew that Sauron was now in possession of all three of the Elven Rings and Gandalf was undoubtedly the most powerful of the three ill-fated Ring-bearers. Sauron would not have been merciful when dealing with this greatest threat and servant of the Valar. So Legolas guessed that Gandalf had not survived the War.

There were five Istari on Arda. Only three of these Legolas knew anything of: There was Gandalf of course, Radagast the Brown and Saruman the White, head of their Order. Of the other two, Legolas knew absolutely nothing for Gandalf had never deigned to speak of them and Legolas had never thought to enquire. But the three most powerful amongst them were well known and before the War were said to have loved Middle Earth greatly, having been tasked by the Valar in Aman with protecting it from harm against all threats.

What, then, could have changed the head of the Order so greatly? Sauron was powerful in his own right but surely he could not have corrupted the Wizards, most trusted servant of the gods.

But if the news that one of the Istari had defected was indeed true then it was grave news for the armies – tiny though they may yet be – of Light. It troubled Legolas greatly.

"Legolas?" Aragorn called his name and he looked over to now find the young man pointing towards the two commanders, who were striding back quickly from the edge of the camp.

The boy did not want to face them on his own, Legolas realised, and he wouldn't let him. Dropping the helmet back to the ground, he hurried over to Aragorn, reaching him just in time to meet Kinnale and the man who had identified himself as Eomer.

Kinnale shot the Elf a wry smile then turned to the young man stood next to him and introduced, "Eomer, this is Aragorn, the reason we're all here."

Looking decidedly uncomfortable, Aragorn nodded politely. "Nice to meet you." Hardly the best greeting he could have given to a potential ally but it was all he could come up with when put on the spot like this.

Eomer nodded in return but said nothing so Kinnale went on, "And this is his guardian, Legolas."

The blonde man's eyes swiftly looked to the Elf then just as swiftly returned to Aragorn, apparently unconcerned about the meaningless guardian at the king's side. In a rough voice, the man said, "We must return before more Orcs come, attracted by the light of the fires."

"Return to where?" Legolas asked when Aragorn remained silent.

Eomer glared hard at him, a gesture which, of course, Legolas entirely ignored, but the commander nevertheless answered the Elf's question. "We go to the Golden Hall at Edoras, where the others await our return. If that is alright by you?" Legolas nodded shortly in reply, not taking the bait and snapping back as perhaps Eomer expected him to. "Alright, let's go," Eomer called over to his men and Kinnale signalled for his Rangers to do the same.

The Rohirrim set the fires on the piles of slain, stinking Orc and Warg carcasses they had built up, then emotionlessly moved out, having performed this grim task many times in the past and grown used to it. The Rangers, however, were a little more reluctant to leave, for they had lost three men in the attack and would normally have taken longer to send them off properly. Close-knit as the Rangers were, it was hard to simply walk away. And yet they were a practical people and they knew that they could not linger on this field of death with the threat of further loss hanging over their heads. So, trusting Kinnale's judgement without question, they followed the Rohirrim, led by Eomer atop his magnificent brown steed.

**OIOI**

Aragorn yawned widely, fighting to keep his legs from staggering in his fatigue. Legolas' hand suddenly appeared on his arm and he blinked up lethargically at the Elf walking beside him. It was just about dawn and grey light crept slowly across the plains of Rohan, lighting them only marginally. They had been walking all night at an unusually fast pace, easily set by the Rohirrim steeds and, what with the battle and the events of the night, all the Rangers were dreadfully weary. In Aragorn's eyes, even Legolas seemed tired. In the daylight, he noticed that his guardian's face was covered in dried blood and dirt left over from the brutal fight with the Wolves of Isengard, his hands were scuffed and bruised and he held himself stiffly as though aching from the exertion of battle. Looking around him, Aragorn realised that all of the Rangers looked very much the same as his mentor. Only Kinnale was still standing tall, walking at the head of their group, refusing to be bested by the Rohirrim and their own proud leader.

Looking ahead of him to the horses and the Rohirrim who rode them, Aragorn noticed Eomer watching him, body and head extended at an awkward angle so he could do so. When the man of Rohan realised he had been caught staring, he turned back to the road ahead, unrepentant it seemed.

"He has been staring at me all night long," Aragorn bent over and whispered to his guardian.

"They are curious." Legolas did not sound surprised. Indeed, he too had noticed the Rohirrim staring at his ward with open interest and in some cases, hostility.

"I'm not sure they like me very much."

"Well, you may take some comfort in the fact that they seem to dislike me even more."

"Huh, that is a comfort," Aragorn smiled softly in Legolas' direction and the Elf returned the gesture, dried grime cracking slightly to reveal slivers of pale skin beneath. "This is going well already." Legolas chuckled, agreeing with his ward's analysis of their new allies. "Where do you suppose they're leading us?"

"Edoras, apparently."

"Where is that exactly?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure. My knowledge of Rohan and its lands is fairly limited I'm afraid."

Nodding, Aragorn sighed heavily. "Legolas?" The Elf looked to him, waiting patiently for the question Aragorn wished to ask. "Are those…horses safe to ride? It doesn't look very comfortable to be on top of one of them."

At this unexpected question, Legolas couldn't prevent himself from laughing out loud, drawing the eyes of Ranger and Rohirrim alike towards them and yet Legolas continued to laugh almost hysterically.

"What…?" Aragorn started to ask but Legolas just shook his head, unable to speak through laughing. "What?" the young man demanded this time. He looked to the Men around him who were staring in confusion – all except for the twin brothers Carion and Valon, who were grinning in delight at their Elven companion's bizarre behaviour even though they had no idea of the cause of this uncharacteristic display of merriment from the usually staid Elf. "Legolas," Aragorn ground out tightly, "people are staring." Legolas just laughed louder, however, and eventually a smile emerged on Aragorn's own lips; the Elf's laughter was infectious and seldom heard. "What is wrong with you?" Aragorn chuckled through his mirth.

It took a while before Legolas was able to speak again and when he did he was breathless. Putting his hand to his chest as he fought to get his breath back, he said, "I am sorry, Aragorn. I just…I am sorry."

"Are you sure you didn't hit your head when you were fighting? Are you concussed?" Aragorn asked him with a smile.

Legolas clapped his hand on the boy's shoulder, still grinning broadly. "I'm sorry," he said a little more soberly. He took another deep breath, settled once more, although he seemed more jovial in the wake of his amusement than he had in a long while. "Horses…" he started as if to answer the boy's original, perfectly innocently meant question, but he was brought to a halt when laughter bubbled again in his chest.

"Forget I ever asked," Aragorn sighed, not wanting to excite another round of near-hysterics. "I suppose I should just jump on the back of one to find out for myself."

"No doubt you will have your chance. Although might I recommend against 'jumping' on your first try?"

"Have you ever…?" He started to ask another question but already he could hear Legolas snickering again and he sighed in resignation. There was no point in speaking with his guardian when he was in this odd mood. As the Elf continued to chuckle to himself, Aragorn snapped, bordering on grumpy now, "Will I ever be able to ask another question without you laughing?"

Immediately Legolas sobered, realising that his reaction was upsetting his young ward. That had never been his intention and he bitterly swallowed down his amusement in anger at his own thoughtlessness. "I am sorry, Aragorn. Ask your question. I will not laugh, you have my word."

Aragorn looked up sceptically at his guardian but there was absolute truth shining in the Elf's eyes so he nodded and asked somewhat tensely, "Have you ever ridden a horse before?"

True to his word, Legolas answered without so much as a hint of humour. "My people tended to move through the trees when on patrol in the forests but we did have many horses and I was once a fairly proficient rider; probably not the best amongst the warriors of Mirkwood but good enough for our needs. I was taught to ride as soon as it was physically possible for me to do so."

"Thank you," Aragorn answered dryly. "That was all I wanted to know."

Although Legolas smiled softly as he nodded, Aragorn felt his heart plummet at the sense of renewed gloominess that had settled once more over the Elf. How could he have been so thoughtless towards the feelings of his guardian? This morning was the first time that Aragorn had seen Legolas appear truly consumed by thoughtless amusement and he realised now that he missed the light that had shot through bright blue eyes, making them shine and dance. And Aragorn had shattered the Elf's rare moment of mirth.

Feeling utterly ashamed of himself, Aragorn bowed his head, the weariness returning tenfold.

"Legolas?"

"Yes?" the Elf asked, looking over to his ward.

"Do you think anything will come of this?"

"Of the Rohan people?" At Aragorn's nod of confirmation, Legolas shrugged slightly. "They saved our lives and Kinnale seems to think it worthwhile."

"I suppose he knows best," Aragorn reasoned; Kinnale was much-trusted by the boy by now.

For a long moment, Aragorn felt his guardian's eyes boring into him and he felt the urge to demand to know what the Elf wanted to say but he bit his tongue, instead deciding to ignore it for the time being. After a while, Legolas spoke softly, asking, "What do you think?"

"I don't know," Aragorn shrugged dismissively.

"Yes you do. Tell me what you think?"

Slightly startled by the Elf's blunt words – especially in the wake of his light-hearted teasing just moments previously – Aragorn nevertheless considered the question for a moment before answering carefully, "I think they are deeply distrustful, they'll be hard to convince that a union of our peoples is the best course of action in the fight against the Shadow." It was reticent but Legolas nodded for him to continue, encouraging. "They are loyal to Commander Eomer; they trust him implicitly."

"So?"

"So if we want the Rohirrim on our side then we must first convince Eomer."

"And how would you go about doing that?"

The young man went to snap at him that he had no idea but Legolas' eyes were watching him, urging him to think upon the problem then answer. So, supressing a sigh, Aragorn did just that.

Slowly and uncertainly, he answered, "Convince him that joining forces is the best way to help his people. If that possibility exists then maybe he will consider our proposal at the very least."

A small, almost proud smile crossed Legolas' lips and he nodded sharply. "I agree."

Pride surged in Aragorn's chest at the praise. It wasn't often that Legolas offered him such a compliment so he had to accept it when it came. He beamed over at the Elf but Legolas' face had turned stern and serious again, ignoring his ward once more and he now looked intently to the front of the group of Men where the Rohirrim steadily led the way onwards.

Aragorn followed his guardian's gaze, blinking lethargically as the light of day, dim though it was, made his eyes ache with tiredness. Yawning widely in spite of himself, Aragorn stubbornly blinked the heaviness from his eyes, suddenly wishing that the conversation with Legolas had lasted longer as it had at least succeeded in keeping him alert and awake. When he glanced to his side, his Elven guardian was watching him with a frown marring his features. Startling slightly at the expression on Legolas' face – concern – Aragorn stared quizzically back.

"What?" he demanded after a while, getting disconcerted by Legolas' continued, uninterrupted stare.

"You're tired?"

"A little, I suppose." He looked around him at the Rangers and they all looked much the same as he felt and yet Legolas seemed not to notice any other. "But, then, we all are, right?" Even Legolas looked weary, so the man couldn't grasp why the Elf seemed so terribly surprised. "I'll be fine; don't worry," he assured, not wanting to concern his mentor unnecessarily. This was not the first time in his life had he felt dog-tired though, most of the times it had been brought on by Legolas setting a relentless pace.

But Legolas did look worried. After a moment of quiet contemplation, the guardian suddenly moved ahead of his ward, making his way past Kinnale, who headed up the Rangers, and moved lithely amongst the Men on their high horses until he reached Eomer at the front.

It was clear that the commander noticed his presence and yet he was ignored.

Unfazed by this rudeness, Legolas called boldly up to the commander, "Excuse me; I think we should halt for a short break."

Cold green eyes finally looked down at the Elf and a slight sneer came onto the man's thin lips. "Do the Rangers not possess the same endurance as others of the Human race?" he chuckled mockingly, a ripple of similar amusement going up amongst those travelling close to him.

Remaining calm in the face of the man's derision, Legolas corrected softly, "I am no Ranger. And our men have already travelled long and battled hard during the night. They require a short period of rest before we continue any further."

Pulling his steed to a halt by the reins, Eomer glared down at Legolas. "And my men have not suffered the same hardships, I suppose?" he growled.

Legolas held up his hand to stop such hostility before it developed into something more. "I did not mean to imply any such thing. But if it is so that your people also suffer then surely your Rohirrim would also appreciate a brief reprieve."

It was reasonable, they both knew, and yet Eomer still did not look happy with the faultless logic. Jumping effortlessly down from his horse, Eomer faced Legolas head-on, although he was a good few inches shorter than the Elf. "What do you know of my people's needs?"

"I understand the needs of the Rangers."

Stepping closer still, Eomer demanded, "Is that so?"

Legolas considered for a moment then said softly, "It is what the King needs."

Tense silence followed and Legolas could feel the anger coming off of the man of Rohan in waves. And yet it seemed that the commander could not easily come up with a reply. He was torn between his anger and an odd kind of concern for the young man amongst them bearing the title of King, even though he seemed angered by this response as well.

Whilst Eomer was glaring at the Elf, Kinnale pushed his way towards them. "What is going on?" he demanded when he reached them, wondering why they had stopped and from where all this new tension had sprung.

Through gritted teeth, Eomer answered, "Your…soldier is tiring and requires rest. Are all your men so weak as this one, Commander Kinnale?"

Kinnale immediately looked to Legolas, surprised. Not once on the road had Legolas ever asked for a reprieve. "Legolas?" he asked softly in concern.

"Your men are tired. An hour's break will surely do no harm to anyone. We are far enough away now from the beacons the Rohirrim lit on the plains to be considered safe," Legolas told the Rangers' commanding officer.

"Beacons?" Eomer snapped. "How dare you! You have no idea how our people work, what we must daily face in our fight to keep our lands secure."

"True. But I know what my fellows have faced in recent weeks. We have travelled long and hard, facing many dangers to reach you; give us a chance to regroup following the battle we have just endured. Please."

Legolas' words were soft and persuasive but at the same time unchallenging and they resonated with the man and he felt his anger melt a little. All those years in his father's court charming emissaries and diplomats were paying off now. Green eyes moved to the young man, Aragorn, the one that the Rangers proclaimed to be the king of Gondor – as if such a thing were even possible. He looked utterly spooked by the stand-off between Eomer and the one that had been named as his guardian, although the confidant blonde man now stood before him looked little older than Aragorn himself – but for the eyes, piercing blue eyes that stared unflinchingly at him and held wisdom beyond his apparent years and Eomer had to work not to flinch away from their intimidating depths.

Finally surrendering, even though it hurt his pride to do so, Eomer nodded, taking a submissive step back from Legolas. "Very well. We'll rest for one hour. Not a minute longer!"

No sign of arrogant triumph lit the Elf's face as Eomer had expected it to.

"Thank you," Legolas said softly, then guided a startled-looking Aragorn away.

Turning to Kinnale, who looked equally bemused by Legolas' strange behaviour, Eomer asked gruffly, "Who is that man?"

"He is not a man. He is an Elvish prince."

"Elf?" Eomer had never met an Elf before, although he had heard of the race through the campfire stories told by his elders. "So, is that where he gets his haughtiness from?" he asked bluntly to cover up his amazement.

"I would call it common sense, actually."

With the barb from his fellow commander still stinging, Eomer turned away and begrudgingly gave the order for his people to dismount. They did so, taking the time to ensure their steeds were looked after before sitting down on the ground, many pulling out flasks and canteens.

It was immediately obvious that the two sides – Ranger and Rohirrim - were firmly divided. The Rangers sat grouped together, separate from the group of the Men of Rohan. Neither side dared to mix. It was hardly a promising start to an alliance. So far they seemed more to be potential enemies than possible allies.

From a distance, Eomer glared openly at both Kinnale and Legolas. Both were aware of it but said nothing; they didn't want to create any further friction between the two sides. With an exaggerated sigh, Kinnale dropped down to sit next to Legolas on the ground, handing him a canteen of water, which the Elf drank deeply from.

"Our new friends don't seem to like you very much," the man noted, uncaring whether the Rohirrim heard his assessment or not.

"No, they do not."

"And your standing up to Commander Eomer did not help matters," Kinnale added pointedly even though a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth as he said it.

"My deepest apologies, Commander," Legolas said dryly. Then more seriously, he added, "But Aragorn needed the opportunity to take some rest. He is not yet fully recuperated."

Kinnale frowned at this. "But that injury was weeks ago."

Legolas cast him a wry look, as he asked, "You still think me to be overprotective."

"I would expect nothing less." He looked down at Aragorn who laid sound asleep by Legolas' side, covered up in a blanket. It was true that Aragorn still looked paler than was usual for him. Only a handful of times since his injury in battle with the Orcs had he complained of a headache but Kinnale had in the past wondered if Aragorn wasn't simply concealing how he was really feeling so as not to worry the ever-concerned Legolas further. "Don't worry, my friend," Kinnale reassured, "Aragorn will be fine."

Legolas nodded vaguely in response. Of course he knew that Aragorn would be well again given time, but that did not stop him fretting. He could not help but worry about his ward – and not just regarding his past injuries. The sheer look of terror on Aragorn's face when, before Eomer just moments ago, Legolas had referred to him as 'the king' was enough to greatly concern the Elf. For all of his teachings and preparations with the young man entrusted to him, Legolas realised that he had entirely neglected to teach him perhaps the most important lesson of all: that he, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, would one day become a king of Men. Legolas knew only too well what a trial those teaching could be, having been subjected to them pretty much his whole adult life in his role as Crown Prince of Mirkwood. As a youth, placed under the strict tutelage of various lauded teachers and mentors, Legolas had rebelled as much as he could against the learning of what he considered at the time to be an unnecessary skill. After all, King Thranduil would always be there, so what was the point of learning his duties? Fortunately, he had nevertheless been forced to endure the lessons and now he was glad for it, because it was knowledge that would come in useful if only to pass on to his young human ward.

"Time's up," Eomer announced to the men after a while, getting up. "Let's move out."

"Damned impatient man, isn't he?" Janor muttered gruffly, shoving his water flask back in his bag.

"Yes, he is." Kinnale looked equally unimpressed as his second in command.

Legolas, meanwhile, knelt down next to his young ward, gently shaking him awake. "Come, we have to leave now."

Aragorn groaned, trying to shake Legolas off so he could return to the peace of sleep. "Go away."

"I cannot. Wake up. You can rest more when we reach our destination; it cannot be much further now."

Grey eyes forced themselves open with some effort, blinked wearily then Aragorn pulled himself up. "Has it been an hour already?" he asked, pushing his hands through his messy hair.

"More or less," Legolas answered, shooting a distasteful glance in Eomer's direction.

One thing became immediately apparent to Aragorn: Legolas definitely did not like the commander of the Rohirrim and thus he too was distrustful of their new allies.

**To Be Continued…**


	33. The Darkness Of The Golden Hall

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 33 – The Darkness of The Golden Hall**

By the time they reached the place that the Men of Rohan called home, even the most patient amongst the Rangers were fed up. They were tired and nerves were frayed to near breaking point by the tension that had grown up between the two sets of Humans on the fraught journey. Even Kinnale looked annoyed at their surly brethren as they rode their steeds easily up a steeply sloping hill, leaving the Rangers to trudge up after them on foot. If Kinnale was irked by their unfriendly behaviour then some of the less even-tempered Rangers were positively fuming. Tarsem, the scout amongst them, was glaring daggers almost constantly at Eomer by now. This would have pleased the others had it not been for the fact that the red-haired scout had started taking his foul mood out on those closest to him; namely the Rangers themselves. An angry Tarsem did not make the walk any more bearable.

Only Legolas appeared unmoved by any of the tension in the air. He walked in silence at Aragorn's side, his face as impassive and unreadable as ever. The Rangers actually found themselves a little disappointed by this lack of concern. So far, Legolas had been the only one brave enough to stand up to Eomer and they had rather hoped that he would show off that impressive sense of command he possessed. But, as before whenever they travelled, the Elf had eyes only for his ward, as if none other mattered.

What the wearied Rangers approached now at least gave them pause in their displeasure. It was like nothing any of them had anticipated after looking at the unkempt Rohirrim wandering the plains.

At the top of a steep hill, stood an enormous reinforced stone building – a castle, actually. Eomer had not mentioned that his Rohirrim resided within a castle-fortress. So much for the put-upon Men of the Mark Kinnale had described. Compared to the small, run-down town of Bree, this stronghold was little short of spectacular.

Upon reaching a long, stone-paved path, the Men of Rohan dismounted and began to disperse, not bothered about the new people amongst them. Eomer, meanwhile, passed his reins over to one of his men and turned to wait for the Rangers to catch up.

Slightly out of breath from the long and steep climb, Kinnale surveyed the castle. Looking then to Eomer, he asked dryly, "Your humble abode?"

"The abode of my ancestors, yes."

"Lucky folk," Kinnale mumbled when Aragorn and Legolas had joined him and Eomer started leading them up the walkway.

"Hardly. They were all slaughtered."

This brought Kinnale to an abrupt halt, surprised. When, a second later, he started walking again, he said, "My apologies."

"You did not do the slaughtering."

Eomer guided them through the doors, clearly hastily made of patched-up bits of wood nailed together to replace the real doors that had evidently been breached at some point in the past as they did not suit the style of the rest of the castle at all. In fact, now that they were closer, it was easier to see that the castle had survived numerous attacks in its turbulent past. Its high walls were pock-marked with countless indentations and cracks caused by Enemy weaponry, windows were boarded up and doors broken or, as with the front, replaced with whatever resources had been lying around at the time of the clean-up. No guards stood on duty at any of these doors; the Rohirrim were not concerned about security, odd considering Eomer's obvious paranoia about Enemy spies infiltrating their lands.

"This," the blonde man started to explain as he led them through the entrance hall and deeper into the building, "is the Golden Hall of Meduseld, once the home of the Kings of Rohan and now the permanent base for the Rohirrim – what remains of us." He shoved open another stiff door bearing an enormous crack down its centre. One thing was immediately clear to the Rangers: Meduseld was at one time a castle besieged. They proceeded into a large, beautifully decorated golden hall, from where the fortress had gotten its name, they presumed.

The hall was far more beautiful than anything they had encountered in either Lothlorien or Rivendell in Aragorn's eyes. Great statues, carved of pure white marble lined the length of the walls, standing side-by-side amongst impossibly big, spiralling columns decorated in rich black and gold. At the head of this room stood a high golden throne, although it remained empty and covered in dust; it had not held a king in many years from the looks of it. On ground level was a smaller black throne made of the same smooth stone that created the floor. Murals adorned the walls and the vaulted ceiling as well and tapestries depicting ancient battles Aragorn knew nothing of hung all around, although they were now threadbare from the ravages of time and ripped and dirty as if they had seen battle themselves and had only just survived the purge of Rohan's people.

Everywhere the Rohirrim's pride and joy – their horses – were depicted with great reverence. Massive, proud steeds, carved and painted with love and veneration, more so even than the Human heroes depicted. These creatures were beloved, sacred even. It was no wonder that the people of Rohan were called the Horse Lords.

Stood in the middle of the great room as his guests turned all about to admire the splendour of his home, Eomer turned to the awed Rangers. "My men will show you where you can sleep tonight. Our facilities are few and simple but you are free to use them if you wish."

"We appreciate it, Commander," Kinnale said with a nod.

Eomer then looked to the young Aragorn and said, "I suppose you would like a proper look around, a tour of our home." He did not seem particularly thrilled at the idea.

Uncertain, as the rest of the Rangers wandered away to rest after receiving a nod of approval from Kinnale, Aragorn looked to Legolas, who had remained at his side along with Kinnale. At least he wouldn't be completely alone with the Rohan man. When Legolas nodded shortly in agreement, Aragorn cleared his throat and as boldly as possible, said, "That would be very useful, Commander, thank you."

For a moment, Eomer glared at him as if wanting to roll his eyes in exasperation at the boy's lack of experience in speaking before him; everything that came out of the young man's mouth sounded false and uncertain. However, he avoided commenting upon this by turning on his heels and leading Aragorn across the room.

When Eomer heard two sets of footsteps following him though, he turned to find Kinnale and, more surprisingly given he had not heard a third set of steps, Legolas, walking along with Aragorn.

"I said I would show the boy around. The invitation did not extend to you too."

Legolas met cold green eyes unflinchingly but remained at Aragorn's side regardless of the words. Kinnale looked a little less assured and glanced to the Elf for guidance.

"I would like them to stay," Aragorn quietly said; hardly the stern reply that seemed to be poised on the tip of Legolas' tongue.

A staring match then ensued, with Eomer and Legolas glaring at one another bitterly, neither willing to back down before the other. The tension shot up between them again like a physical force; a silent battle of wills raging unrelentingly. In the meantime, Aragorn and Kinnale could do nothing but watch helplessly. Both would have put money on Legolas coming out the winner in the end though.

And this would have been a wise bet for it was indeed the man who backed down first, breaking the battle of the stares and surrendering, for now at least, to the Elf. Far from seeming pleased at his small victory though, Legolas appeared almost disappointed that he had won with such ease.

"Very well." Eomer curtly turned away again and this time strode quickly from them. He was not at all pleased; his authority had been challenged in his own halls and it clearly grated on him that he had been publically bested by someone that he had taken an instant dislike to.

The man led the three of them quickly out of the Golden Hall and along a long, richly decorated corridor with an impressively high ceiling. The others followed in rather uncomfortable silence.

Quite to Eomer's surprise and distaste, it was Legolas who dared to break the silence in the end and asked the first question. "How is it that a structure as magnificent as this one survived the wrath of the Enemy?"

Only Legolas' referring to Meduseld as 'magnificent' softened Eomer's anger and thus tempered his response. "The building may have survived but its people did not fare so well."

"Yet you live."

Eomer nodded and proceeded to explain, "My ancestors were fortunate; they were out patrolling and defending the borders of Edoras when Meduseld was first besieged by the Shadow's armies. By the time they returned home, the Golden Hall was wrecked and its defenders massacred."

"Why then do you still reside here?"

"Because whilst this building remained standing, the rest of Edoras was completely destroyed during the War."

"No, I mean, this castle is unquestionably impressive, a prominent place in your lands, and yet it seems not to have been attacked for a good couple of decades. Why is it not a more obvious target for the Dark Lord's forces?"

"We are of little consequence to the Armies of Shadow," Eomer chuckled. "We pose no significant threat to Mordor anymore. My men are too few. We are no longer even considered important enough targets for Isengard anymore - mercifully."

"But we were attacked," Aragorn pointed out, referring to their most recent battle with the Orcs and strange Wolf-like creatures the Rohirrim had called 'Wargs'.

"You made yourself noticeable to the Enemy. _We_ know our boundaries."

"And what exactly are your boundaries?" Legolas asked him.

"We try to keep to this fortress and the lands surrounding it. We only defend; we don't make a fuss."

"And in return for your good behaviour?"

"We get to live. A fine deal any way you look at it."

Legolas found that he could not wholly agree with this conclusion. These men may have considered themselves protected but they had also been made prisoners in their own land. Apart from the breeding of their beloved horses and their hilltop fortress long ago breached by the Enemy forces, they had very little. Even the villages they had walked through earlier to get to this opulent place had been dead, abandoned.

"How many people actually live here?" Kinnale asked in Legolas' place.

"As you saw, my guards number approximately twenty. We have around thirty women and a few children but they remain always in the castle."

"Only twenty trained fighters?" the Ranger echoed, surprised and disappointed by the small number. He'd rather been hoping for significantly more.

"There are other threats to our survival besides the Shadow, you know."

"Of course. I did not mean it as a slight, Commander."

"We were not always so few. Many left us, around about ten years ago. They no longer wanted to sit back and do nothing whilst the Dark Lord ruled over our lands. So, packing up their weapons and a few supplies, they rode out, half of them towards Gondor and Mordor and the other half to Isengard to confront the White Wizard."

"I assume it did not go well," Legolas guessed dryly.

Glaring again – he really did not like that Elf – Eomer coldly replied, "Only two men returned, both of them from the patrol set on taking on Isengard. None came back from Mordor. I was but a child at the time."

"A foolish endeavour."

Suddenly, Eomer rounded on Legolas, a knife positioned at the Elf's neck. Breathing heavily with emotion, he growled, "My uncle, my only living relative at that time, was killed in that 'foolish endeavour'. He was the bravest man I ever knew. So I would appreciate if you kept your opinions to yourself."

Blue eyes stared unflinchingly into Eomer's. If Legolas was concerned by the threat then it didn't show. Perhaps it was because Legolas knew that Eomer would not actually shed innocent blood or – more worrying for Aragorn – he did not care.

After a moment though, Legolas took a calm step back away from the knife and, bowing his head and laying his hand over his heart, said, "My apologies. I meant no offence."

It took Eomer a long while to decide that Legolas was indeed genuine but eventually he sheathed his knife and Aragorn and Kinnale drew in a collective breath of relief.

Once he'd taken another moment to gather himself, Eomer turned and started walking again, this time towards a specific destination and as he did, he spoke. "Their sacrifice was not entirely in vain. It proved sufficient distraction from the true purpose of going into the lair of the White Wizard."

"What was their true purpose?" Kinnale asked with a frown.

"Information gathering. The two men who returned were our spies, sent to document the defences of the fortress and its tower of Orthanc. They managed to get past the defensive circle of Isengard and penetrate the tower itself."

"And what did they find?"

"They found much. Although with Rohirrim numbers so depleted it proved all but useless knowledge."

"So the mission was a failure," the Ranger said, his voice again coloured with disappointment. He had been expecting more.

"Not entirely," Eomer smiled enigmatically. He stopped then before a locked, heavy wooden door at the very end of the corridor, which due to a past attack was now exposed to the open air. Outside stood two men, stern-looking, who did not so much as glance at the strangers standing before them. Whatever lay beyond that thick door was important enough to guard even though the men of Meduseld failed to guard even their front door. Eomer pulled a length of string from under his tunic. Hanging on this around his neck was a small iron key.

Immediately and inexplicably, Aragorn felt his anxiety peak. For some reason he did not want to see what lay behind that locked door. He rubbed his suddenly sweaty palms on his trousers to dry them and tried to take comfort from the fact that Legolas still seemed to be perfectly calm. His own heart was pounding so hard in his chest that he was sure the Elf could have heard its erratic pattern and his fingers twitched unconsciously towards the pouch hidden securely in his jacket pocket. He felt Legolas glance in his direction, as if sensing his unease and, licking his suddenly dry lips, Aragorn turned to his mentor to see the inevitable question in the Elf's eyes. He smiled at Legolas, hoping that it would be sufficient proof that he was alright. However, surprisingly, Aragorn thought that he saw a dash of unease in Legolas' eyes too. Did he feel the same nervous, frightening energy thrumming through his body as well?

Before Aragorn could enquire, Eomer inserted the key into the lock and turned it. The lock squeaked and protested at the use; the mechanism had not been turned over in a long time.

"Three years ago those two spies at last returned to us. Where they had been and why it had taken them so long to return home we could not determine."

"Did you try asking them?" Kinnale asked dryly with a small smile.

"Hardly." He slowly pushed the door open. Inside was dark but Eomer did not produce any source of light. "The two spies did not return to Meduseld empty-handed."

Whilst Aragorn noticeably hesitated in following the blonde man of Rohan, Kinnale boldly went after him, oblivious, it seemed, to the bad feelings his two companions were puzzling through. Legolas stepped in after the Ranger, determination etched onto his features. That his guardian was also unsettled only made Aragorn more ill at ease. After a moment though, he too entered the room, unwilling to be left behind on his own.

It was small, seemingly used more as a storage room than for any grander purpose. Dark as it was inside, it took Aragorn's eyes a moment or two to adjust sufficiently.

Whatever had once been stored in this room had been cleared away to make way – unnecessary though the surplus space might have been – for a small table, about five feet high, covered in a square of fine, deep brown cloth that looked to have been hastily cut from a cloak or tunic of some kind.

Aragorn felt his disquiet growing again as he stared at this cloth, in the centre of which stood out a starkly obvious bulge. The cloth was covering something and Aragorn guessed that it was whatever was making him tense. By his side, Legolas seemed just as unsettled and yet he stood firm, unyielding, even as Aragorn fidgeted against the urge to turn tail and run away.

Eomer had clearly been in this position before as, although he looked uneasy, he too stood tall and unafraid. Nevertheless, he moved slowly around the table, keeping to the walls to put some distance between himself and the thing beneath the cloth.

"Our spies returned from Orthanc with only this."

His mouth was dry so he could barely speak but Aragorn forced out of his throat, "What is it?" The weight in his right pocket was growing almost unbearable and heat pounded in his chest. He couldn't explain it but he undoubtedly felt it. It was almost as if something was…calling to him.

"We…we're not entirely sure." Eomer took a step forward and carefully took the corner of the cloth between his thumb and index finger. "See for yourself."

At the same time as Legolas yelled, "No!" taking a sudden step forwards, Eomer dragged the cloth off the object.

Immediately the effect was obvious. Aragorn felt the pressure in the room increase tenfold, pounding down on him until it actually made him feel lightheaded. At the same time, an odd, almost ethereal screeching filled his mind, although it felt distant. Strangely, it was not particularly unpleasant; just unusual. Only seconds later, Legolas' hand once again appeared on his shoulder and Aragorn found himself once more able to focus on the storage room in which he was standing, as if his guardian had brought him back down to earth and everything was made clear once again. Even Kinnale now seemed shaky, his eyes darting from the object revealed on the table to Legolas and back rapidly, looking to the Elf for reassurance.

The 'thing' – Aragorn had no idea what it was called – was small, innocuous looking at first sight and yet it was brutally obvious that the simple orb that sat on the table was of immense power. It practically throbbed with barely restrained energy. It was obsidian black with dark purple veins running across its surface and burrowing deep into its unusual swirling core, for solid though it was it appeared to be moving beneath the surface as if a liquid fire storm were raging inside.

Above all though, the orb was utterly enchanting. Aragorn found it both beautiful and terrible to behold and he found it difficult to pry his gaze away from it.

"Impressive, is it not?" Eomer broke the silence that Aragorn honestly had no idea how long had been going on.

Blinking, Aragorn shook his head and felt the odd pounding in his mind receding further still. Gathering his senses, he asked again in an almost reverent whisper, "What is it?"

Whist Eomer went to reiterate that he had no clue what the spies had brought back to Edoras, Aragorn curiously stepped closer and reached out his hand, compelled to touch the smooth surface.

Suddenly, Legolas' hand clamped around the boy's wrist and pulled his arm sharply down. "Do not touch!" he cried out in horror and panic.

"Wise advice," Eomer agreed calmly. "Those other two men who laid their hands upon its surface now lie under the ground."

"They're dead?" Aragorn asked in surprise, his hands clenching into fists at the near miss averted only by Legolas. He no longer felt the desire to caress the mysterious object's surface. "How?"

Glaring at the orb as if it were a sentient of terrible malevolence, the man answered, "They were driven insane by that thing. When they returned home, they said they had seen in its depths the most terrible visions."

"Visions? Like what?" Kinnale asked, also eyeing the object warily.

"They never said. Within a couple of months of coming back to Edoras both of them took their own lives in the throes of their madness, nothing could dissuade them from that course. After that, the object was locked in this room with the order that no one was to touch it. I have the only key and this room is guarded night and day."

"What could do such a terrible thing to Men?"

Suspiciously glaring at the swirling sphere as if it could somehow know his detest of its power, Eomer muttered, "Something infused with dark, malignant magic, that's for sure."

Eomer's flippant description of this object as 'magic' could not have been more appropriate at that point in Aragorn's mind; the thing fairly exuded an air of dark sorcery so often equated with the creations of the Shadow. This was no simple Orc trickery though. This was something altogether more potent and evil.

"Did Sauron create this…this abomination?" Kinnale growled, although the forging of the magic ball of stone could hardly be counted amongst the Necromancer's more heinous deeds against the world. And yet this _thing _inspired inexplicable anger in the commander's heart, as though the tendrils of the Shadow were working their way through his body and into his soul and spirit and trying to twist it beyond all recognition. It was a terrible feeling and he shuddered as though trying to shake the thought away and backed further away from the table until he was pressed fully against the wall, but it still did not feel like sufficient distance. He seriously doubted, staring unblinkingly into the depths of cloudy purple and black, that even if he were to cross back over the mountains and journey to the very furthest point from Edoras that it could be considered sufficient distance.

"This is not the work of the Shadow – although Shadow has indeed sullied it," Legolas answered certainly and to Kinnale the Elf did not seem in the least bit frightened by the thing that was causing him to want to run far away.

"You know what devilry this is?" Eomer demanded incredulously of the newcomer to Edoras. It had been in the keeping of the Rohirrim for three years now and the only thing they knew about it was that it had come from Orthanc and had the ability to drive rational people crazy.

Slowly, Legolas nodded, his own blue eyes, shining with curiosity and wonder, locked on the stone of swirling fire. "This is one of the lost Palantiri, the Seeing Stones."

"Seeing Stones?" Eomer repeated the name. "I have never heard of such a thing."

"Just because you have not heard of it doesn't mean it does not exist." It was not said meanly, although had Kinnale not been so distracted, he would have cheered at the blunt way Legolas spoke to the proud commander of the Rohirrim. "I have never seen one either, although I have read of them. Their creation is a popular story in Elven lore."

"Elven?" Aragorn interrupted, startled, head snapping in his guardian's direction. "This was made by the Elves?"

"Yes. Long ago by an Elven prince named Feanor. He created the Palantiri for the Elves; to enable the Wise to see great distances."

"But this…it drives people insane," Aragorn hissed in horror. He did not want to believe that Legolas' people had ever been responsible for producing something so terrible.

"The Elves did not keep the Seeing Stones. The starlight-infused crystals were gifted to the Dunedain, your ancestors Aragorn, in the Second Age of the Sun. My people inevitably lost track of them over the centuries as they were handed out amongst the Edain but they recorded that the Dunedain did not use them freely. I believe that when the Dark Lord rose to power, he gathered the Palantiri to him – they would indeed be a valuable commodity."

"How did one come to be here then?" Aragorn asked in a whisper.

"Saruman is in league with the Shadow," Eomer pointed out, calmed slightly by Legolas' explanation of the Seeing Stones.

"And Isengard – its Tower of Dark Sorcery was built by the Dunedain. Perhaps the previous occupants kept the Stone within the tower and when they gave Isengard over to Saruman long before the rise of Darkness they also left the Palantir in his safe-keeping," Legolas mused, casting his mind back to the books mapping the history of Man he had studied in lessons as a child. They were hardly packed with detailed information of Human lore but the scenario he posed nevertheless made sense.

"Great foresight, the Dunedain," Eomer muttered sarcastically, glancing in Aragorn's direction as if shifting the blame from the Elf over to him instead. Aragorn made no gesture back; his eyes were transfixed upon the Palantir, he had no thought for the Commander of the Rohirrim.

"They couldn't possibly have predicted how the White Wizard would be corrupted. More than likely it was through the Palantir that Sauron reached out to him in the first place."

"Wait a minute! Sauron has one of these things too?" Kinnale suddenly demanded as he put the pieces together, sounding even more frightened than before as he stared wide-eyed into the dark crystal as if he could see the Lord of Arda in the depths staring back at him. "Can…can he see us then?"

Panic lit the eyes of the three men in the room as they all stared into the depths of the Palantir, even though they feared the evil it represented. Only Legolas remained calm as he assured, "No. Only touch can spark the magic inside the Stones. One must _want_ to see." The tension in the room eased slightly now they knew that their every move was not been observed and studied by the Dark Lord. "However, it is wise, Eomer, to keep it obscured from public view. So it must remain until the time is right to reveal our possession of it."

Breaking the spell that seemed to have enraptured them all, Legolas stepped forward and lifted the cloth from where Eomer had draped it over the edge of the table after revealing the Stone, and laid it back over the crystal, taking great care not to lay his hands on the mystical object. Even the strength of the Elves could not stand up to the might of Sauron. Despite the appearance that he was unaffected, in truth Legolas was just as scared of this thing as the others; it filled his senses, pounded in his head and spirit with a dark, malevolent beat. The power given out by this object almost physically hurt him, perhaps in a way that the less sensitive Men in the room could not understand.

"What do you mean 'when the time is right'?" Aragorn questioned the Elf's strange choice of words.

Legolas shook his head and became the first in the room to take his eyes off the table. Seeing that Aragorn had paled so greatly, that Eomer had not yet stopped glaring angrily at the table and that Kinnale was pressed so close to the far wall that it must have been hurting his back, Legolas finally spoke again.

"Come, we should get out of here."

Aragorn nodded and gratefully shuffled past Legolas towards the door and Eomer followed close behind, the key ready in his hand as if eager to shut and lock the door on the thing left to his safe-keeping by the unfortunate spies of Rohan. Only Kinnale did not move. It was as though he was simply incapable of moving his eyes off the table or moving his seemingly lead-filled, heavy body from this room.

Cautiously, Legolas approached the Ranger and took his arm.

At the Elf's touch, Kinnale startled and looked towards him. Beneath Legolas' hand, the man was trembling dreadfully.

"Come away, my friend," Legolas encouraged softly.

It took considerably more encouragement to coax Kinnale away from the room in the end. He wanted to leave this place behind and never set foot inside ever again. But he found that even though Legolas' touch had somehow lifted the majority of the thick fog from his mind, his legs were still not working properly. He was extremely glad that Legolas was at his side because the overwhelming temptation to turn back and snatch up the Seeing Stone and stare into its depths once again filled his heart and mind. Only the Elf's grip on his arm prevented him from doing so.

The moment Eomer closed the door and locked it again, Kinnale felt the weight lifted fully from his mind. His legs felt weak and he struggled not to sink to his knees, a feat aided by Legolas' continued hold on his arm. At his side, he heard the others take similarly deep breaths of relief and he filled his lungs with fresh air, relieved beyond words to be away from that thick, dark magic. He hadn't realised until now just how stifled he had felt all but trapped in that small room.

For a long while, the four of them stayed silent, unmoving, trying in vain to make sense of what had just occurred.

Surprisingly, it was Kinnale, still trembling slightly, who broke the silence in the end. He announced to the others, "I think I need a drink."

Five minutes later saw all four of them sat on a long bench two on either side of the great dining table so that they could see one another. Before each of them sat a full goblet of the Rangers' most potent alcohol. This was in fact their second glass and so far none of them felt that the liquor had eased the echoes of the magical pounding in their heads.

It had been a long while since any of them had spoken and the thick silence only increased the tension over the table. Every time anyone went to speak, they were immediately silenced by some strange compulsion and so the quiet continued and the tension grew.

Eomer cleared his throat as he reclined back in his chair and the others startled at the sound, which seemed impossibly loud cutting through the quiet.

Mercifully, it broke the tension. Kinnale chuckled, leaning back in his own chair, mirroring the other commander's pose, as he relaxed a little bit. And, just like that, the tension snapped and calm descended over them once more.

"Well, I suppose you will want somewhere to rest tonight," Eomer said bluntly all business once more, sitting forward, elbows leant on the scarred wood of the table.

"I know I could use a warm bed for the night," Kinnale agreed light-heartedly. Had it not been for the slight tingling lingering at the back of his tired mind, he could almost have convinced himself that the whole incident with the Palantir had never happened at all – and he would certainly have preferred it that way.

"Well, I can't guarantee a bed but our rooms are warm and dry."

"Good enough."

Kinnale and Eomer heaved themselves wearily to their feet and headed towards the door, eager for rest. More slowly, Legolas and Aragorn followed suit, lagging behind the other two. The Elf could tell that Aragorn remained lost in his own thoughts and he laid his hand on the young man's arm to help guide him safely through the wide halls of Edoras after their host. Worryingly, Aragorn barely seemed to notice his guardian's presence or even that they were moving at all.

Legolas, however, paid attention as Eomer guided them through the abandoned corridors, the only source of light being the candle the man held. It was hard to believe that they were walking in the same building; the corridors seemed so dramatically different from all they had seen so far. Far from the beautifully decorated halls Legolas had been expecting after the splendour of the throne room they had come across upon first entering Meduseld, these hallways, deeper within the castle, were bare and empty, not nearly as well-kept as the Men of Rohan's pride and joy on display to all visitors. Dust covered the floors, only slightly disturbed by passing feet, as if this particular hall was not often used. Doors lines the corridor but all remained firmly closed, rooms sitting unoccupied.

"This is the guest wing. To be honest, we haven't had a whole lot of use for it over the years. But there are mattresses and blankets inside the rooms," Eomer explained as they walked, noticing Legolas looking about himself in curiosity.

"We've slept in worse places," Kinnale assured honestly.

"No doubt."

Eomer eventually came to a halt outside a door at the very end of the long corridor and stepped over to open three of the doors. "Your rooms. Everything you need should be inside. Your men are currently being given food and drink in our dining halls but they will soon join you down here. Do you require food? We don't have a lot to share…"

"We have food, thank you," Legolas answered quietly to the strained hospitality. Now that the Palantir had been identified and Eomer had sufficiently completed his duty as tour guide it was obvious that he was eager to get away back to his own people.

"Right then. I'll leave you to settle in."

The man passed his candle to Kinnale then turned and strode back the way they'd come without another word, leaving the three of them alone. Once he was gone, Legolas, Kinnale and Aragorn all filed into a single room, closing the door behind them to provide some privacy in case of any Rohan residents happening to pass by. It seemed that Eomer hadn't been kidding when he'd said that the guest rooms of Meduseld weren't up to much. An old thin straw mattress sat beneath a boarded-up window but not a single piece of furniture decorated the room. It was easy to imagine that at one time this space had been extremely pleasant, perhaps belonging to some scribe or low-level advisor granted rooms within the Golden Hall, but, like all else, that had long since changed and now it more closely resembled a prison cell than a bedchamber. Nevertheless, they were glad for the blankets and the rooms Eomer had given them, it was better than sleeping outside.

Immediately, Legolas led Aragorn over to the bed and sat him down. The boy allowed himself to be manoeuvred into place without objection.

"How do you think he took it?" Kinnale asked eventually, running his fingers over the bare mantle-piece above the empty fireplace, coming away with a thick layer of grey dust which he rubbed from his finger onto his trousers.

"Our plan, you mean?" Legolas questioned, his attention remaining on Aragorn's blank face for the minute. Kinnale nodded despite Legolas not looking at him, seemingly anxious again. "I do not know. I certainly hope he agreed with us. I believe that when threatened, the Rohirrim are more than capable and certainly willing to defend their people.

"Competent warriors given the chance," Kinnale agreed.

"Let us hope." For a couple of minutes, Kinnale paced up and down the length of the room, stopped only by Legolas' voice. "We all need to rest." His eyes were still fixed on Aragorn in concern. "It has been a very trying day for everyone."

"Yes." The Ranger's eyes also took in Aragorn's slumped form, pale and silent sat on the mattress. "Right, I'll leave you to it." With that, he strode purposefully from the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

Legolas waited until he heard the door to the room across the hall close before he turned his eyes back to Aragorn once more. The boy was staring blankly at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap, and seemed oblivious to his guardian's piercing gaze on him. Gently, Legolas placed his hand upon his ward's shoulder and softly asked, "Are you alright?" The boy nodded, obviously distracted, not so much as sparing Legolas a glance. "Aragorn, look at me," Legolas ordered firmly.

Painfully slowly, soft grey eyes rose to meet sharp blue and after a second Aragorn blinked in confusion, as if he had only just realised that they had left the small room containing the Seeing Stone and that Legolas was sat next to him.

"Are you alright?" Legolas asked again, this time more confident that his charge would answer.

He was proven correct as Aragorn slowly replied, "I think so."

Lowering his eyes again, Aragorn went back to blankly staring at his hands, still folded tightly together on his thighs. For a moment, Legolas allowed the morose silence – so troublingly unlike Aragorn – to continue. Then he reached up his hand and smoothed the young man's hair in a rather uncharacteristically parental display of affection. Softly, he said, "The Palantir…Looking into it upset you."

"Yes," Aragorn muttered.

"It did me too."

Aragorn looked up at his guardian in surprise. Legolas had seemed so unerringly calm in the face of an object so full of evil; impossibly calm, it had seemed at the time. To know that Legolas had in fact also been ruffled was oddly comforting. The Elf was never one to be overly dramatic, so maybe that horrible pressure he'd felt on his own heart and mind as he'd gazed into the swirling black and deep purple crystal was not quite so utterly overwhelming now that it was shared by his guardian.

"You…you felt it as well?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever felt that kind of thing before?"

"No, I have not," Legolas confessed to him honestly.

"What was it?"

"Honestly, I do not know. Evil, maybe; the pressure of the Shadow on our minds." Aragorn visibly shuddered at the mere mention of the Shadow of Mordor and Legolas very nearly did the same.

"I don't ever want to have to feel it again."

Aragorn had rather been hoping for the absolute assurance from Legolas that he would never again have to feel the touch of Darkness on his mind but Legolas remained silent for a long time before finally speaking. "The Shadow is forever growing stronger, Aragorn. Soon you may have no choice but to face that kind of evil again."

Shaking his head, Aragorn breathed shakily, "I don't want to." He willed the hot tears not to gather in his eyes but nevertheless found his vision rapidly blurring and his cheeks burning.

"I know you do not."

Was that sympathy he heard in Legolas' voice? What had the Elf to be sorry about? Did his guardian know something more of his future than he had confided already?

He wanted to demand answers from his guardian, to know all that he knew, and yet he found himself pressing his forehead to Legolas' shoulder and whispering, "I'm scared."

Legolas wrapped his arm rather awkwardly around his young charge and pulled him close. "I know."

"It felt so close to me."

The Elf did not need to ask _what_ had felt so close for he too had felt the cold touch of the Shadow on his mind and heart as he'd looked into the ancient Elven crystal. And, although it would never do to admit to this to the vulnerable young man at this moment in time, it had scared him too.

"I felt it just as acutely," Legolas told him. "But it was just an illusion, Aragorn. He was not here with us."

Grey eyes shot up in sudden panic to meet Legolas', his breathing ragged through his fear. "What if he saw us?" he demanded, terror stealing the breath from his body and making it difficult to speak. His hands gripped hold of Legolas' forearms so tight that it hurt them both. "If he knew what…what we were trying to do, that we were planning to stand against him, then…then what would he do, Legolas?"

Not for one instant did Legolas' calm façade slip and he looked steadily into panicked eyes as he answered with absolute certainty, "There is no way he could possibly have seen anything, so do not worry that he knows anything about you, me or our plans."

"But you don't know - not for certain."

"Yes, I do know."

"How?" Aragorn demanded, his eyes wild now. To think that the eye of the Dark Lord had been fixed on him, no matter how briefly, terrified him. Aragorn knew that Legolas had omitted certain aspects of his grand plan when speaking of it in front of the boy and he feared that now Legolas was simply uttering false platitudes to calm him rather than speaking the truth as he desired. "Tell me, how do you know for sure?"

"Calm yourself, Aragorn. The crystals can only be used when touched, therefore if you do not will to see another then you cannot."

Slowly, under his guardian's cool gaze, Aragorn calmed his breathing and allowed Legolas' presence to comfort him until the pounding fear in his chest eased again. Swallowing thickly, he released Legolas' arm, stretching out his aching fingers before swiping them over his eyes to clear away the unwanted moisture lingering there.

Once he felt that his voice would be strong enough, Aragorn softly said, "I am sorry." He looked up to his guardian and added in all sincerity, "I do trust you."

At this, Legolas simply smiled, not knowing quite how to respond to such a great compliment. It was all he could ask for: the trust of his ward. Hesitantly, Legolas then gave the young man one last reassuring squeeze before leaning away from the embrace. "We should both get some rest; take advantage of Eomer's hospitality, such as it is. I have a feeling that it will be fleeting." At least he managed to draw a short bark of laughter from the boy; that in itself had to be considered a victory after the day they had had. "Do you want to eat something first?" Aragorn shook his head morosely. "Are you sure? We have some cold meat left over."

"I think I'd rather just go to sleep."

"Alright." Legolas could understand just how his ward felt because he felt very much the same way. It was as if all the energy from the Palantir had worked its way into his mind and soul and now that it had left it felt like it had sapped away of any strength he had possessed beforehand.

Legolas shifted aside as his young charge lay down on the mattress and turned onto his side away from the Elf, not wanting to speak anymore that night. The room was warm enough even though no fired burned in the hearth. And yet, Aragorn shuddered slightly. So Legolas delved through his pack until he found the blanket and then laid it over the man, as much for a sense of security as a source of warmth.

Aragorn clutched the blanket around himself tightly but made no effort to acknowledge the actions of his guardian. So, deciding to leave Aragorn alone for a while to gather his thoughts just as he himself longed to do, Legolas stepped silently away from the humble bed.

"Can you stay for a while?"

The voice was so soft that Legolas was sure that without Elven hearing it would have gone entirely unnoticed even in the quiet of the room. He turned back to find that the man had not yet moved and yet he felt in Aragorn that almost desperate need for company, to know that he would actually not have to be left alone with his thoughts.

Walking back to the bed and purposefully treading across the floor so the boards creaked in order to let Aragorn know that he was indeed doing as asked, Legolas answered, "Of course." He sat himself down on the hard, dusty floor beside the bed.

Still Aragorn did not speak but after a while Legolas heard him slowly shifting to get into a more comfortable position.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it wasn't long before Aragorn's breathing evened out, indicating that he had finally fallen asleep. In his sleep, Legolas knew that Aragorn would never notice his absence at his side, and yet he stayed put, sitting on the wooden floor long after the last of the daylight had faded from the small window. After a while he heard the loud footsteps outside coming down the hall as the Men returned from their meal and then the sound of poorly hushed voices as they gathered together in conference, discussing their arrival in Edoras and the people they had met. Legolas made no effort to pick out specifics and made no move to go and participate in their conversations and none of them came to interrupt them, for which he was grateful. There was so much to think about now that they had at last arrived in Edoras and found the Rohirrim and he didn't really wish to sit with the Men and talk through the details until he had it all clear in his mind. He pulled his legs up, wrapped his arms around them and rested his chin on his knees, focus half on Aragorn and half occupied by thinking of Eomer and the Palantir.

Legolas startled awake at the sound of Aragorn stirring at his side. He hadn't even realised that he'd fallen asleep, sat up, leant awkwardly against the wall, his knees up and his head pillowed on them. Blinking to clear his vision, Legolas looked to the mattress where his ward laid sleeping. Although it seemed that Aragorn had been tossing and turning for a while, the man remained sound asleep, too exhausted it seemed to claw his way back up from the world of dreams he was currently walking.

Yawning widely, Legolas stretched out his stiff arms and legs. He was still weary even after his sleep but at least he was no longer concerned about leaving Aragorn alone; he was fairly confident that the man would sleep for a while yet. So, he climbed to his feet, pausing to straighten the blanket over Aragorn, and went to the door, stepping silently out of the bedroom.

Uncertain which room he was supposed to be in not having paid Eomer much attention when he'd brought them here, Legolas wandered idly along the hallway, not concerned by the darkness.

When he reached the end of the corridor and turned the corner, he very nearly ran into one of the Rohan guards. Muttering an apology for almost crashing into the man, Legolas went to walk away but then turned back and asked, "This place is a maze; could you direct me to a bathroom?"

The man glanced in his direction only briefly before looking away again, almost as if he wanted to answer but had been ordered not to talk.

"Very well," Legolas muttered, stepping away.

"It's no use trying to get any sense out of them."

Legolas turned sharply at the voice, exclaiming, "Kinnale!"

The man laughed at the Elf's surprise and came over to the blonde Elf so that he could be seen in the darkness. "Sorry. I've been trying to search out Eomer but his Men have certainly been no help. Come on," he continued, taking Legolas' arm, "I know where there's a bathroom."

Leaving the silent guard behind, Kinnale led the Elf through corridors that even in the dark Legolas vaguely recognised from earlier that day.

"So, how is Aragorn?" Kinnale broke the silence after a while.

"Sleeping. He's exhausted."

"We all are, I think."

Legolas nodded in agreement, biting back a yawn that threatened to escape him at the mention of sleep. He then turned his head to the Commander of the Rangers and noted, "You look better."

"Mm; sleep heals all ills. From the looks of it, you could do with some yourself."

"Aragorn didn't want to be left alone."

"Understandable under the circumstances."

"Yes." Legolas' mind immediately shot back to the Palantir. He could have cursed Kinnale for reminding him of that feeling he'd tried so hard to forget all evening.

Kinnale stopped outside a door, which Legolas presumed was a bathroom, but did not move out of the Elf's way so he could enter. Waiting patiently, Legolas stood in silence until the man felt ready to speak what was on his mind. "That…thing, Legolas…"

"The Palantir," Legolas boldly spoke its correct name.

"Right. Do you not think we should be thinking of ways to destroy it?"

"As far as I am aware the crystals cannot be destroyed by conventional methods and attempting to could alert the allies of the Shadow as to our whereabouts."

"We definitely don't want that that," Kinnale mused dryly. "Do you believe it is safe, leaving it in the hands of the Rohirrim?"

"Absolutely not."

Kinnale looked up to the ceiling and took a deep breath to compose himself before looking back to Legolas with a murmured, "I was afraid you'd that."

"It may be dormant for the time being but that doesn't mean that it should be underestimated. It is immensely powerful and extremely dangerous in ignorant hands."

"You plan to take it with us when we leave?" the Ranger asked in a whisper as if the Men of Rohan were listening from a distance, which Legolas supposed was entirely possible. "I can't imagine that Eomer will be pleased to hear that, even if he does decide to join with us."

Legolas shook his head. Also keeping his voice low, he reasoned, "The Palantir is not his to possess and given what it represents for his people and for all of Middle Earth he should be glad to be rid of it."

Kinnale made an uncertain face then shook his head. "If he does wish to keep it then he's a damned fool. I'd be quite happy if I never had to look at that thing ever again."

"I fear that despite its unsettling magic, the Palantir may be of help to our cause yet."

"Help? That thing is evil to the core."

"Yes, it is. But for once that might actually work to our advantage."

"How so?"

"I don't know yet." Silence fell between them again - Legolas thoughtful, Kinnale fearful. Truthfully, Legolas' words had surprised even him. He had no idea how exactly the Palantir, conduit of Evil that it had become, would be an advantage to the forces of Light but his instincts told him that it was so and he knew enough to listen to his instincts when they were so clear; they had served him well so far. Once he had cleared that up in his mind, Legolas looked to Kinnale again and offered the obviously worried man a small smile. He laid his hand on the man's broad shoulder and patted. "Do not worry just yet, Kinnale, we are in no danger from the Shadow in this exact moment in time."

"That does not particularly reassure me."

A soft chuckle left Legolas' lips at this and he observed, "You sound much like Aragorn."

"Now, there's a compliment coming from you."

"Indeed."

Relaxed somewhat by Legolas' unwavering confidence that he actually knew what he was doing, Kinnale allowed himself to smile, feeling better now than he had since they'd looked into the dark crystal. Either the Elf really did have a greater plan than he had let on to the Rangers so far or he was a superb actor, but either way it lessened the troubles on his mind so he took the assurances at face value.

"Well, whatever happens, I'm glad I'm on your side, Legolas."

"Thank you."

Suddenly uncomfortable with the unexpected praise from the Ranger, Legolas shifted on his feet, searching his mind for an excuse to depart from the source of his embarrassment.

"Well," Kinnale exclaimed, sensing the Elf's discomfort with what was being said, "I'll let you…" He stepped away from the bathroom door then gestured to the corridor they had just walked down, asking, "Can you find your own way back?"

"I think I can manage, thank you."

"Good." Before the moment could grow any more awkward, Kinnale strode quickly away, leaving Legolas to stare after him in confused wonderment. Over the past months, Kinnale had become a friend and sort of confidante, but he couldn't recall ever being complimented quite so directly by the man before. It left him feeling rather bemused.

Deciding that he was too tired to wonder any longer at the Ranger tonight, Legolas slipped into the bathroom. It was reasonably well-maintained but was also pitch black inside so Legolas had to feel his way around.

Once he'd made himself more comfortable using the meagre facilities, he returned to where the guest rooms were located. No lights burned anymore so he assumed that all the Rangers had at last gone to sleep for the night, although he didn't doubt that their rest would be troubled, sleeping as they were in an unfamiliar realm of Men they were still uncertain about. He contemplated that it was a good thing that so far they knew nothing of the Palantir, this very great weapon of the Enemy that slept just a few corridors away from them.

When Legolas briefly looked in on Aragorn, he found that the man remained sound asleep, uncaring of his new surroundings or his guardian's absence. Smiling gently, Legolas retreated, closing the door carefully so as not to disturb his young charge's peace.

Thankfully, Legolas found that a thoughtful someone, Kinnale he presumed, had left open the door of the vacant room meant for him and he stepped gratefully inside, glad for the privacy it offered. In front of Aragorn, or even before the Rangers' sympathetic commander, he had to remain strong, unbending in the face of the Shadow even though in his heart he was filled with fear and doubt over the task that still lay ahead of him and his young ward.

He had no more of an idea of how to handle the situation now than when Arathorn had first laid the responsibility of the heir of Gondor upon him. Of course, he couldn't let on to the others that he was utterly clueless. For some unfathomable reason, Aragorn still looked to him as a guide and mentor and the Rangers, on the young king's recommendation, seemed willing to follow wherever he led them.

Heaving a world-weary sigh, Legolas flopped gracelessly down on the thin mattress positioned on the floor under the one boarded-up window, not even bothering to take off his boots and jacket. Laid stretched out on his back, staring up at the ceiling, Legolas tried to clear his mind of thought enough to allow at least for reverie but he ended up lying awake for another few uncomfortable hours before he was finally allowed some semblance of rest.

**To Be Continued…**


	34. Nothing To Lose

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 34 – Nothing To Lose**

"Legolas?" Someone was shaking him from his sleep. "Legolas?" And it was hurting. His chest and shoulder felt as though they were burning with fire. He lifted his arm to ward off the disturbance then laid it over his chest defensively but whoever it was shaking him was annoyingly persistent and did not retreat. "Legolas?"

"What?" the Elf finally snapped in anger, forcing his eyes open. Kinnale was stood over him holding a flickering candle to light the room. Legolas was about ready to shout at the man to get out and leave him to his rest – what little of it he was able to get – but upon seeing the look on the Ranger's orange-illuminated face he instead sat up, successfully hiding the wince that threatened to pass over his features, and demanded, "What is it?"

"Aragorn."

Kinnale knew fully well that he needn't to say anything more to gain Legolas' undivided attention. Proven correct, the Ranger had to jump out of the way to avoid being knocked down as Legolas leapt up and strode purposefully from the room.

"He's next door. He won't open the door."

"Why?" Legolas asked, faltering only briefly in his steps to glance behind him at the following man.

"I don't know," Kinnale said as he went with Legolas through the doorway. "I woke up to him shouting but when I went to investigate what was wrong he'd jammed the door shut and he won't let anyone inside." Legolas found that a crowd had gathered in the hallway outside their rooms and he had to push past them to get to Aragorn's door. He blatantly ignored Kinnale when he mumbled, "I'm surprised you didn't hear his shouts too."

"Aragorn?" Legolas called to his young charge, knocking gently on the door, his ear pressed to the wood so he could easily pick up any sound from within. It took only a moment, even with the crowd murmuring in the background, for Legolas to hear soft crying from inside. "Aragorn, it's me, Legolas, can you let me in?"

For a long while the boy was silent but then Legolas heard him call tearfully back, "Go away."

"Please let me in, Aragorn."

"Leave me alone."

Leaning in closer still, the Elf assured gently, "I just want to make sure you're alright."

"I'm fine."

"Can you open the door so that I can see for myself?"

"No," Aragorn called back firmly. Even so, Legolas could still hear him crying within and it worried him greatly. Aragorn had been just fine when he'd left him to sleep earlier. What could have changed so dramatically in only a few hours? "Please leave me alone." This time Aragorn's voice was muffled and Legolas could now picture him crying into his thin pillow miserably.

"Told you," Kinnale said from behind the Elf.

Legolas turned to find the man obviously concerned by Aragorn's behaviour, especially that he was ignoring his trusted guardian, something that he was not prone to doing. However, Legolas ignored the Ranger's worry for the time being and instead asked, "Could you please give us some privacy?"

Looking about at his fellow Rangers, Kinnale could have sighed in frustration. Sometimes he felt that the exclusive relationship that Legolas and Aragorn had formed between themselves would never allow entrance to anyone else, no matter how much the Men of Bree wanted to be involved with this man who had declared himself to be their future King. Rather than voicing his discontent however, Kinnale muttered, "Sure," and then shouted to the dozen or so men gathered in the corridor to determine what was going on, "Back to your rooms now. Come on."

Reluctantly, partly through concern for their future king but also out of simple curiosity as to what was going on with the young man, the Men filed away, doors slamming behind them as they returned to their respective rooms.

"Here," Kinnale handed Legolas the candle, "you might need this."

"Thank you."

Legolas could sense Kinnale's irritation but right then he had little time or patience to worry about one man's ruffled feathers, not when his vulnerable ward was so obviously in need of his presence and attention. So, he turned back towards Aragorn's locked door, leaving the Ranger to return to his own room and sulk all he liked in privacy.

More gently this time, Legolas rapped on the door and assured, "It's just me now, Aragorn. Please open the door."

The Elf said nothing more; if Aragorn wanted to then he would come to the door, if not, well then Legolas would just sit and wait outside until the boy felt ready to come out of his own accord and confide in him, as he inevitably would eventually. Legolas knew all too well how much pressure was being piled onto the young man – to some extent he felt it too – he also knew from experience that although it may have been healthier to share the burden with another, sometimes it felt better to simply lock yourself away and just be miserable for a time. Of course, from the other side of the door, worrying about the upset boy whom he still considered to be in his care, Legolas wished that Aragorn would choose the former and speak to him of his troubles.

And sure enough, after a while, Legolas heard soft footsteps padding across the floorboards on the other side of the door. However, Aragorn did not open the door to his mentor. Rather, the Elf listened closely, easily picturing Aragorn leaning against the door.

He already knew that Aragorn was not yet ready to come out but Legolas asked quietly, "Are you alright?"

There was another long pause and if Legolas had not been listening so hard for the reply then he would have missed the words spoken next. "I dreamt of…of _him_ again."

This fact did not surprise Legolas in the least. Given what had occurred that evening, the touch of Darkness however distant it might have been, it was only to be expected. Sliding down the wall so that he was sat on the floor, Legolas rubbed his eyes but said nothing as he waited for Aragorn to resume speaking again, which he would do once he felt ready. He knew that it wouldn't be long – predictable as the boy was when it came to the endurance of drawn-out silences.

"I saw him again." Aragorn's voice trembled as he spoke just a fraction above a whisper. "He was…He stood in a room blazing with fire. I could feel the heat of his gaze on me. It was as if…as if he too was made of the fire and it burned me. I felt like I was on fire!" he cried in a wavering voice.

"It was only a dream," Legolas assured softly. He could hear how upset the man was and knew that his words, whatever they were, would be of little comfort no matter how kindly they were meant.

Aragorn's voice was choked as he came back, "I know." After a short pause, Aragorn continued, "It felt like he could see me, like he was looking right at me through that…that _thing_."

"That isn't possible."

"But what if it were?"

For a moment Legolas remained quiet, trying to think of the best way to allay his young ward's quite legitimate fears. "If he could see you, we would know about it by now. And when – _if_ – he does see you, we will have plenty of warning, we will be able to react."

"He would want me dead." The sudden calm in Aragorn's voice was troubling to the Elf and he turned his head to the door as if longing to be able to see through the solid wood but he still made no comment. "He…he wouldn't keep me alive if he found me."

"No," Legolas answered truthfully, "he wouldn't. You are a great liability to the Shadow."

Another thoughtful silence followed and Legolas could imagine the man using the quiet time to compose himself enough to continue. How far the shy, cowering boy he had met on the Old Forest Road had come. It was in a way terrifically sad, watching the loss of innocence happening right before his eyes.

"He wouldn't like what we were doing – if he knew," Aragorn continued after a while, voice ever so slightly stronger now.

"No, he would not."

"For some reason, that comforts me."

Legolas smiled slightly at this. "So it should. If Sauron is displeased at your actions then we can be certain that we're on the right track."

"Good," Aragorn sniffed. For a moment, he fell quiet again, then Legolas could hear him lean closer to the door and ask fearfully, "You'll be with me, right?"

"Of course."

No hesitation, Aragorn noticed, not so much as a second's pause in the answer. His ever-reliable, assured guardian. "You promise?" he nevertheless asked in an uncertain whisper, resting his forehead against the cool wood of the door behind which Legolas sat.

"I promise."

"Even if Sauron himself comes for me?"

"Even then."

"Legolas?" This time, Aragorn's tone turned uncertain, tentative. "There is something I haven't told you."

For a couple of beats, Legolas waited to see if the hesitant boy would continue without prompting. With equal reluctance, he conceded, asking a simple, "Oh?" Nerves fluttered deep down in his empty stomach. What could Aragorn possibly have hidden from him?

"My father…Legolas, he gave me something before he died." Legolas' heart pounded hard in his chest and a cold sweat broke out, trickling down his back and dampening his brow. There was only one thing Aragorn could be referring to even so obscurely and it scared even Legolas half to death. "He gave me something, said that I should never speak of it to anyone, that it was incredibly dangerous. But you're my…You're all I have and I…"

"Aragorn, stop!" Legolas exclaimed as he sat up perfectly straight, unable to bear it any longer.

"What? I haven't said anything yet."

"And nor should you."

"But…you…"

"Don't need to know," Legolas interrupted abruptly, hauling himself to his feet with great effort.

"Legolas…"

"Aragorn, if your father swore you to secrecy then it was for good reason. Honour his wishes and say nothing more now."

"Why would you…?" Working out the hidden meaning behind the Elf's words in his head, Aragorn suddenly realised why Legolas, who thought, when it came to his charge at least, that honesty was always the best policy no matter what the topic, was now telling him to keep the secret that troubled him the most. He thought back to that night, after Legolas had saved him from the Wild Men who'd ensnared him due to his own stupidity, when he had so frantically searched the Men's leader's belongings for the object that had so quickly attached itself to his very soul. Legolas had looked at him so strangely that night. "You know!" he boy suddenly accused as realisation dawned on him.

Although Legolas refused to definitively confirm, just his words were confirmation enough for Aragorn. "We will not speak of this ever again. And you will tell no one. Not Kinnale, not Ciaran, not Eomer. No one. Do you understand me?"

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Aragorn answered, "Yes sir."

"Good," Legolas said more sedately this time, now that the pounding in his chest had subsided somewhat and he could breathe evenly again.

"Legolas, I'm sorry."

The Elf heaved a sigh, leaning wearily back against the wall. "For what are you sorry?"

"All of this. I'm sorry I've made your life so complicated. I'm sorry you're stuck with me now."

"Well, I can hardly blame you for that, can I?"

Aragorn chuckled softly, recognising the Elf's amused tone at once. "No?"

"It was my own fault really, for playing the hero and plunging headlong into the fray with those Orcs."

"I suppose. But I'm glad you did all the same."

Sincerely, the Elf quietly agreed, "So am I." Legolas smiled softly, knowing that on the other side of the door Aragorn was mirroring the gesture, the ice that had frosted the conversation just moments before now well and truly thawed. "Could you open the door to me now?"

For a moment, Legolas heard no activity from inside and thought that despite everything maybe Aragorn was not yet ready to grant him access. But then he listened in relief as he heard Aragorn get up and unlock the door so that his guardian could enter.

Stepping inside, the Elf was immensely relieved that Aragorn appeared unhurt – if not looking a little frazzled. Nevertheless, he asked, "Are you alright?" peering at the boy in the dim light thrown out by the candle.

"Yes," Aragorn nodded, stepping self-consciously away from the Elf's inspection.

"Come, you should go back to bed. There are still a couple of hours before dawn." Legolas took his ward's arm and led him back to the mattress, carefully laying the candle he carried down on the floor. Once Aragorn was settled, Legolas laid his hand soothingly against the boy's forehead, alarmed to find it hotter than was normal. "You have a fever!" he exclaimed, concerned by the sheen of sweat that glistened on the man's flushed face.

"No, I'm fine."

"I'll get you a damp cloth."

"Legolas, I'm fine," Aragorn sighed softly, turning his head wearily away from his guardian then a frown creased his brow. "You look worse than I do," he noted.

"What?"

"Were you asleep?"

Realising that after being woken so abruptly by the panicked commander, he probably looked a complete mess, Legolas smoothed down his ruffled hair and straightened out his creased shirt. "Kinnale woke me when he heard your cries of distress," he said by way of explanation.

Closing his eyes, Aragorn breathed a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry."

"No need to apologise."

"I know how hard it is for you to find sleep."

Legolas found himself caught off guard by this comment. Certainly on occasion his ward had expressed the odd vague concern over him, but in truth Legolas had no idea that Aragorn was so aware of his problems falling into true sleep at night. He had always tried so hard to hide that fact from his charge, wanting neither to concern Aragorn unnecessarily nor bring about further questions from the ever-curious young man. Of course, when Aragorn had been a child, it had been so easy to keep the truth from him; he'd simply ensure that the boy always went to sleep early then spend most of the night occupying his mind someway, warding off his body's demands to give into sleep. He wasn't sure how he felt about Aragorn now knowing that this was the case, even though he understood that the boy's intentions were only good.

Looking back to the man, Legolas was poised to assure Aragorn that all was well with him but as he opened his mouth to speak, he realised that the man was sound asleep once more. With a fleeting smile, Legolas closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the wall. In all the years that he'd known the man he'd never worked out how it was that Aragorn could fall asleep at the drop of a hat, disregarding all the pressures and worries building up around him; perhaps it was a Human trait.

Still, Legolas wasn't going to disturb his ward's peace out of jealousy, so he lifted his head and dragged himself to his feet. Deciding to leave the candle on the floor just in case Aragorn woke again – he was sure that given his nightmares Aragorn would appreciate the light – Legolas went to the door.

Going back to bed did not seem like a particularly good prospect; his mind was already whirling again and he knew he wouldn't be able to rest anyway. So rather than returning to his room, he banged on Kinnale's door, certain that the Ranger would still be up after the excitement of the night. He was proven correct when the door was flung open after only seconds.

"Legolas." The man seemed surprised and he peered past the Elf to check that he was alone. "How is Aragorn?"

"He is fine. May I come in?"

"Sure." He opened the door fully then stepped aside so that Legolas could enter. "So, did you find out what had him so upset?"

"Another nightmare."

"Getting rather frequent, aren't they?" Kinnale muttered as he shut the door on the dark corridor.

"Ever more so." Legolas took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark, noting that Kinnale's room was better in condition than either his own or Aragorn's quarters in Meduseld. A sign of respect, perhaps, from commander to commander.

"So, what is it you wanted?"

Legolas turned to face him in spite of the darkness shadowing each of their faces. "You know somewhat of the lands of Rohan?"

"I suppose."

Perching on a rickety chair in the corner of the room, Legolas said without preamble, "Tell me everything."

**OIOI**

"Whoa, whoa, wait just one minute," Eomer interjected forcefully from across the long table where representatives of the Rohirrim and Rangers and Legolas and Aragorn were all sat. A smile crossed his features but it was mocking rather than gently amused. "You expect us to just follow you into battle on a whim?"

Confidently, bolstered by his long talk with Legolas the night before, during which they had hashed out their overall plan, Kinnale answered simply, "Yes."

The blonde man slumped back heavily in his high-backed chair. "And this is a serious suggestion?" At the Ranger's frown, he clarified, "It's not a joke?"

"No joke, Commander."

"Great. So you are crazy, after all. Pity."

"Many things I may have lost over the years, Commander, but my sanity remains mercifully intact."

"To even consider such a plan would be insanity."

"How so?" Legolas asked strongly from where he sat two seats away from Kinnale. All eyes turned to the Elf who had remained so far entirely silent during the proceedings.

"Excuse me?" Eomer snapped, green eyes boring into blue in an attempt to awe and intimidate. Kinnale had to admire his boldness, futile though it may have been to even try and frighten the Elf. Certainly it was something Kinnale himself had given up on after his first failed attempt. "Are you suggesting that you know my lands better than I do?"

"Absolutely not." Legolas looked affronted by the accusation for it was certainly not what he had meant. "But I do know the world beyond your lands better than you do."

Eomer bristled at the perceived insult and seated himself bolt upright in his chair again – a show of bravado if ever Legolas had seen one. This was, after all, the man's table, his people, in his home and the newcomer Elf seemed intent on making him look a fool. But he would soon put that right. He'd knock that smug look of calm self-assurance off the face of the Elf-prince.

With a smile – or a sneer perhaps would have been a more accurate description – Eomer said, "You don't know the world as well as you think, Elf. The Orcs in these parts are not content to simply whip through the lands of the Rohirrim wreaking havoc. No, they weren't satisfied until they'd made themselves a stronghold in these parts."

Legolas looked to Kinnale in undisguised surprise and then back at a seemingly very self-satisfied Eomer. "Stronghold? Where?"

"A fortress of Men called Helm's Deep."

"Did you know about this?" the Elf asked softly of his Ranger friend and Kinnale shrugged in reply. Turning back to the gathered men of Rohan, Legolas asked, "What is Helm's Deep?"

No one seemed too keen to answer his question but when it became clear to them all that Legolas was not going to do anything but sit and wait with incredible patience for an answer, Eomer sighed and sat forward, hands clasped on top of the pitted, scarred wood table beneath him as if about to launch into a detailed lecture and taking a certain amount of pleasure in doing so.

"Helm's Deep is a stone fortress built by the Men of Gondor centuries ago. Carved into the White Mountains above the Caves of Aglarond, it was thought to be impenetrable. But when the combined forces of Mordor Orcs and Isengard Uruk-hai invaded these lands they took the fortress from us, creating themselves a stronghold to command the surrounding lands from and leaving us with no notable defences."

"Impenetrable?" Kinnale picked up on the word that had interested him the most. "It seems too good to give up on. You never tried to regain it from the Shadow?"

Eomer's head snapped up at that, his green eyes glinting bright in anger. He stood from his chair amidst murmurs of irritation from his fellow Rohirrim. Kinnale, it seemed, had touched upon a sore subject.

"You think we haven't tried? Do you know how many soldiers we lost trying to recapture Helm's Deep?" Sadness shone in his eyes now, plain for all to see.

"Who did you lose?" Legolas asked bluntly of the commander, although Aragorn and Kinnale could hear that sympathy laced the question.

For a long moment, Eomer sat frozen at the words – apparently, he didn't hear the same sympathy in Legolas' tone. Then, as if in a delayed reaction to what had been said and without any warning at all, he launched himself across the table, crashing right into the stunned Legolas opposite. The Elf could do nothing to prevent it as Eomer's weight fell down on top of him and the chair toppled backwards so that both Man and Elf inevitably ended up sprawled in a graceless heap on the floor. Before Legolas had a chance to recover from the unexpected attack, Eomer's hands were hauling him up and he was shoved hard against the wall. Winded, shocked and unable to retaliate, Legolas was pressed up against the hard, uneven stone, Eomer's strong fists, so used to fighting, slamming into him.

"You have no idea!" Eomer yelled at him, kneeing him in the groin and dragging him back up when he doubled over in pain. "You don't know what it feels like to lose someone!"

Suddenly, many pairs of hands were dragging the big man off and Legolas dropped to his knees with a grunt of pain. Only Aragorn crouched next to him. The other men were still trying to hold a furious Eomer back as he struggled to get back at the Elf for what had been said.

Finally coming to the realisation that he wasn't going get be granted another crack at the Elf, Eomer gave up on his endeavour to get at Legolas again. "Get off me." He shoved at the men holding him – Ranger and Rohirrim alike – and stepped away from them. "Get off!" Breathing heavily from his exertions, Eomer jabbed a finger in the direction of Legolas and demanded, "Keep him away from me." With that, he shrugged off the final pair of restraining hands that had remained on his shoulders and slammed out through the door.

"Are you alright?" Aragorn asked of his guardian, gingerly touching his fingers to a cut above Legolas' eye.

Having managed to get his breath back, Legolas assured, "I'm fine."

Kinnale appeared in front of him then, holding out his hand to help the Elf up. "Here." He pulled Legolas to his feet, relieved that he seemed steady despite the suddenness and brutality of the assault. "Sure you're alright?" Kinnale asked once the Elf was stood straight – he kept gripping Legolas' arm just in case he wasn't quite as steady as he seemed.

"Really, I'm fine." He then soothed Aragorn's concerns with a mere touch upon his arm and the boy smiled shakily at him in reply.

"It was his sister."

Legolas looked around the crowd of men to identify whose voice had dared to speak up and found a young man sat at the table, seemingly unconcerned by the events that had just taken place around him. "Excuse me?" Legolas asked as he wiped a thin trail of blood that had slid down his chin with his sleeve.

"His sister," the blonde man repeated calmly.

Another one of the Rohirrim answered this time. "Not dead."

His patience at an end with the vague answers he was getting from the Men of Rohan, Legolas snapped, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"She was taken. The Orcs took her."

Paling, Aragorn asked in a frightened whisper, "They took her alive?"

The Men nodded grimly, all settling back down now. However, their collective calm was broken when Legolas asked, with a bluntness that would rightly test the cool of even the most well-tempered human, "Why?"

"Why what?" the young man who had first spoken up now shot back.

"Why would they take her alive?"

"To possess one of our royal family was a big coup for them."

All the Rangers present looked up at this in surprise. It was once again Legolas who was brave enough to speak up. "Royalty? Eomer is royalty?"

"Well, that complicates things considerably," Kinnale mumbled.

He hadn't meant for it to sound antagonistic or disrespectful but that was how the majority of the Rohirrim took it. Those who were sat around the table rose to their feet confrontationally and those already up in the wake of the fight between their commander and the new Elf amongst them who seemed intent on insulting as many of them as possible stepped in closer still to the grouping of Rangers.

"You seem determined to make enemies here," Kinnale muttered into the Elf's ear.

A sign of surrender, Legolas held his hands up before him. "I meant no offence."

"You'll have to forgive him," the Rangers' commander interjected on Legolas' behalf. "Legolas doesn't have much…flair when it comes to words."

"Nor, it seems, does he possess any tact," the young man spat, although he raised his hand to get his companions to back down.

A retort was poised on the tip of Legolas' tongue but he wisely bit it back and let Kinnale do the talking instead.

"We didn't mean to offend your…leader, king?"

"Leader," a chorus of tight voices corrected.

"Right, your leader. We didn't mean to offend him. As you know, we know little of your culture or your past but we want to learn. From here on out, we have to work together."

**OIOI**

Eomer was pacing. He hadn't paced like this for a long time. In fact, not since the Palantir had fallen into his care. Wearing out the already woefully threadbare carpet of his chamber was not going to achieve anything. Yet, he had to do something to work off the anger that bubbled threateningly beneath the surface. Punching the smug, blonde Elf in the face had admittedly been tremendously satisfying but it had only served to lessen his annoyance for a while and now, left alone to think, his anger was building again. Yes, the urge to go in search of the Elven prince who seemed to know so much and challenge him to another round was nearly overwhelming but Eomer was surprised that when an impatient rapping came from the door that his hand was already gripping the doorknob.

He looked back to the worn carpet as if expecting to see some device that had magically transported him over to the door without him even realising. Shaking his head at this absurd notion, Eomer turned the handle and threw the door open, part of him longing for it to be Legolas. At least then he would be justified in hitting out at the Elf.

Disappointment that it was merely his Ranger equivalent at the door must have been plain on Eomer's face as Kinnale looked at him with a frown.

"Pleasant greeting."

"Sorry," Eomer mumbled under his breath. "I thought you were…someone else."

"Huh." Although Eomer had been careful to avoid using Legolas' name in front of Kinnale, knowing that the two were probably friends, it seemed that the Ranger could not be fooled. The tall man stepped into the room without invitation and set the tray he carried, bearing two mugs of curious-smelling tea down on the table. "You should go easy on him."

Eomer slammed the door so hard that the ancient stone walls trembled. "Why? That snob knows nothing about me."

"You are not the only one to have lost."

"Well, he had no right to speak to me in that manner."

Sighing, Kinnale tried to explain. "Legolas speaks sometimes without thought but he means no harm by it. Here." He handed Eomer one of the mugs. "Herbal tea." After taking a sip of his own drink, perfect for clearing the head he found, Kinnale continued, "Legolas is difficult to get on with, believe me, I know that all too well."

"And I thought we could agree on nothing."

"But once you get to know him, get to understand why he is like he is…"

"Because he's an arrogant ass?"

"Because he's lost too, more than you could know."

"And if I asked him who he'd lost, what do you suppose his reaction would be?"

"Probably exactly the same as your own," Kinnale laughed, knowing how defensive the Elf could be at times, often infuriatingly so. "Seriously though, he is a good man – kind-hearted and loyal. He raised Aragorn from a child with no thought for himself even though he was under no obligation to do so. Just give him the opportunity to prove himself to you."

"I see no reason why I should."

"Well, for a start, he will never be parted from Aragorn."

"So? That means nothing to me."

"It should. Aragorn is the future, the only way out we have. And with Aragorn comes Legolas."

"Why should I care about some young pretender to the throne?" Eomer growled, turning angry eyes on Kinnale.

However, the Ranger remained calm, almost thoughtful, as he replied, "We should all care about that boy. He could well be the answer to all our problems."

"How? By claiming the right to a throne long-since toppled? Please!" the man scoffed dismissively. "The only thing that will happen upon challenging the Dark Lord's reign is that we'll all be put to death. Where is your incentive with that in mind?" Triumphant, the Man of Rohan flopped down into the hard-backed chair placed next to the table and folded his arms across his chest.

"One look out your window should provide you with all the incentive you could possibly need to promote change. You said yourself that your people have been culled, your lands ruined, your homes destroyed. Now ask yourself this: 'what have you got to lose?'"

The air of confidence seemed to suddenly be sucked from Eomer's spirit as the words and reason behind them sank in. He seemed to shrink in his chair as if only now remembering that there truly was nothing left for the people of Rohan to lose.

"If Aragorn is successful in being the catalyst to uniting the race of Men and thus garnering enough support to defeat the Dark Lord, then you and your people will become free. Yes, lives will be lost in the process, but as a commander you must know that oft times sacrifices must be made to achieve the greater good." This time when Eomer raised his eyes to meet Kinnale's they held a shade of uncertainty. Softly, Kinnale offered, "I am sorry for your sister."

As if burnt by the kindly-meant words, Eomer flinched and looked away towards the window. "I need time to think," he mumbled, his hand running unconsciously over his rough cheek.

Kinnale laid his mug down. "Of course. But think fast, Eomer of Rohan. In two days we are leaving to liberate Helm's Deep – with or without your help."

Eomer's voice stopped Kinnale with his hand on the doorknob to leave. "That is tantamount to suicide."

"Maybe. But, like you, we have nothing to lose."

**To Be Continued…**


	35. Into The Deep

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 35 – Into the Deep**

"This is madness," Eomer hissed as he dropped easily into a crouch, his voice holding a curious mix of severe annoyance and increasing fear. Under the cover of thick darkness, the Man of Rohan, along with Kinnale and Legolas, had made their way slowly and carefully up the steep hill atop which stood the ancient stone fortress of Helm's Deep and were now crouching at a small grate in the base of the stone fortifications. At a mere four feet high and set rather inconveniently in a swampy riverbed, it went unguarded by the Orcs and Uruks that were so obviously still encamped at Helm's Deep.

True, Eomer could not argue at this being the most vulnerable point of the fortress' defences but all the same, it remained an immense risk to take, stealing into the Enemy fortress.

Hissing back through the darkness, Kinnale replied, "Can we just hurry this up, please?"

Already Legolas was working on pulling at the crumbling metal bars, seemingly not concerned by Eomer's dark thoughts of imminent defeat or complaints. Fortunately for them, the iron bars of the grate were so weak through exposure to the elements that it was easy enough to break through with the simple application of some brute force.

"I am hurrying." Eomer adjusted the scabbard at his side to keep the tip out of the shallow, filthy stream in which they were now crouched.

Glaring at the Rohan man even though its effect was lost in the darkness, Kinnale turned to aid the Elf in widening the gap enough so they could all slip through. After a moment of silent fuming over being ordered about by his Ranger counterpart, Eomer joined them, pulling at the eroded bars with all his strength. However, the man was soon distracted again when he felt something heavy run over his booted foot. Kicking out instinctively and splashing Legolas and Kinnale with putrid water in the process, Eomer yelped softly.

"Shhh," Legolas hissed, aware that although this particular spot went unguarded there were still plenty of Orc ears around to hear any disturbances around the defences.

"Something just ran over my feet," Eomer whispered back in a high tone as if that justified his girlish yelp.

Legolas looked down at the water, already well aware that they were not the only ones using the grate to gain access to Helm's Deep. He'd felt tiny feet pattering across his own thin boots several times already, heard the slight splashing as they crossed the shallow water to get through the gap.

Hoping that it would calm the man down, Legolas explained in a whisper, "Rats. This place is crawling with them."

"Rats?" Eomer squeaked, looking down, suddenly wishing that he had some source of light so that he could at least see the furry little intruders that made his skin crawl. "I really hate rats."

"Better than Orcs," Kinnale reasoned with a shrug.

Looking back up at the flippant reply, Eomer glared once more into the darkness, hoping that Kinnale could at least feel the intensity of his glare on his back. In truth, he honestly wasn't sure whether the man's argument – rat over Orc – held any real merit. Right then he would gladly have traded scurrying, filthy, disease-carrying rats for hacking and angry Orcs.

Over all, Eomer had considered this to be a thoroughly terrible, reckless plan ever since the Ranger's commander and Legolas had posed it three weeks ago around the conference table at Edoras but now, crouched in the water, trying to gain entrance to the now Orc-run fortress he was convinced that to enter would bring death to them all. Still, he had reluctantly agreed with them, only because of that most important thing that he hoped still resided captive inside and he recognised they were too far gone now to turn back. As the rats continued to scurry around him, unaware of the surreptitious infiltration of the agents of Light going on around them, Eomer steeled himself against the fear that welled in his chest by filling his mind with the last image he had of his sister.

Actually, the plan that Aragorn, Legolas and Kinnale had devised was remarkably simple: gather all the men of Rohan and Bree who could bear arms, get to Helm's Deep as stealthily as possible then leave the Men in a safe hiding place just outside the fortress walls out of the sight of the fortress' lookouts whilst the three of them gained access through the wall via the one weakness Eomer knew of. Then it was simply a matter of killing the Orkish guards that stood at the main gates and opening them to allow access to the main forces of Men. After that came what Eomer considered to be the main flaw in the whole endeavour; killing every ally of the Shadow within the fortress successfully and retaking what was rightfully theirs.

Simplicity, however, did not necessarily guarantee success, especially when it was so fool-hardy a plan. And yet, Eomer had been convinced by the logic of it and the fact that in his heart he knew that this was the right thing to do even if he found that which he feared most within these walls.

"Alright, that should be big enough," Kinnale decided once they had sufficiently widened the gap in the rusting grate.

Eomer shoved the other two aside with a muttered, "I'll go first," before squeezing himself through the hole, the man slowly unsheathed his sword, ready should there be some agent of the Enemy lurking nearby.

"I'm so glad we're such a democratic little group," Kinnale muttered to Legolas, knowing that the slight against Eomer would have brought a smile to the Elf's lips. In spite of working closely together, Eomer's iciness towards Legolas had thawed very little over the weeks. He was working with the Elf he considered 'pompous and overly opinionated' only because he had no other choice. And, although Legolas had been unerringly polite since their confrontation in the conference room, Eomer stubbornly refused to warm to him. Of course, this had done little for morale on the journey to the Deep. At one point, Kinnale had been tempted to tell both Man and Elf to simply take out their swords and thrash out their differences in order to clear the air, but with the very real possibility that Eomer might actually try to kill Legolas in the process, which surely would do nothing to lift the spirits of anyone save Eomer himself, Kinnale had kept the idea to himself and tried his utmost to simply ignore the tension between the two of them.

In some ways though, Kinnale found himself thinking that plunging head-first into a den of creatures of Shadow was preferable to spending more time on the road with Legolas and Eomer constantly at one another's throats.

On the other side of the outer wall they were fortunate enough not to encounter any resistance, although they could hear the snarls of the fortress' inhabitants in the distance. Keeping low and moving quietly, the three intruders made their way along the edge of the wall. Torches burned as they got close to the main gates but the Orcs disliked the light enough that the flaming torches were confined only to the places were light was absolutely necessary and it was easy for the Elf and the two Men to stick to the shadows.

As Eomer and his Rohirrim had informed them, four Orkish guards stood idly at the main gate and although they bore weapons typical of their race, they were barely focused on their duty. Complacency had always been a major flaw of the armies of Shadow after so many great victories. And, after all, who would be foolish enough to launch an attack on Helm's Deep?

Creeping up to the distracted creatures, Eomer gave the signal to attack. It was done in silence. Quietly, throats were slit from behind, the bodies dragged out of the way to avoid detection. They moved fast, knowing that it wouldn't be long before they were spotted by the other Orcs and Uruks that resided in the fortress. The gates were not locked, just barricaded with a simple wooden bar, which took all three of them to remove. Once open, all they would have to do was signal for the combined forces of Rohirrim and Ranger to join them and they could attack.

As planned, Legolas headed away from the main gates, moving through the shadows on silent feet. Kinnale and Eomer – and especially Aragorn – had not understood the Elf's reasoning when he'd said that he would make his way into the fortress itself on his own but he had not backed down in the face of their protests, insisting that he knew best. Kinnale was certain that Eomer had cheered at the thought of Legolas entering the Orcs' den without back-up. Aragorn on the other hand, had been furious at the reckless plan and the yelling that had followed Legolas' declaration could be heard all along the guest corridor of Meduseld and had continued long into the night. Perhaps that was why Legolas had insisted that Aragorn stay behind with the others whilst he went with the commanders to infiltrate the fortress.

Legolas moved in the shadows for as long as he could. When he reached the long walkway that led up to the doors to the fortress proper, he paused, looking all around for Orcs posted at the windows. He had no doubt that there would be a guard inside the entrance but leading up to the tall, solid wooden doors it was all clear.

He ran as fast as he could up the incline, deciding that speed now outweighed the need to avoid being spotted. When he reached the doors, he tugged on them, hoping they'd be unlocked. No such luck. Boldly, he banged on the door with his fist, hoping for a reply.

"What?" a voice snapped from the other side, obviously Orc rather than Uruk by the tone. Rather than answer, Legolas pounded on the door harder this time. Sure enough, Legolas heard the sound of heavy bolts being pulled back and the guard growled irritably, "What do you want?" Once again, Legolas beat hard on the wood, knowing that it was irritating the creature on the other side into sloppiness. A moment later the door was wrenched open and a voice again demanded, "What?"

Legolas' reply was to simply stab his knife through the Orc's exposed neck, killing it instantly. Tossing the almost decapitated body down on the floor, Legolas stepped over it to dispatch the other Orcs, five in total, that were milling around in the hall. Without missing a beat, he strode through another door on his, which led to a long, curved, dark corridor with twenty or so doors lining it. Had he not known where he was headed, this would have been problematic and he was glad that the archives at Meduseld had contained detailed plans of the fortress and that he'd taken the time to study them before he'd left, committing to memory the simplest route to his intended destination.

At first he met no resistance as he navigated the corridors. Helm's Deep was vast, built to house hundreds of people during a prolonged attack, and Legolas knew that it would be easy to get lost if you didn't know your way around.

After a couple of minutes, Legolas heard shouting from outside, a sure sign that battle had commenced. Orcs and Uruks heard the call and poured from the fortress to confront the Men, who foolishly dared to attack their stronghold. Along his way, Legolas dispatched a fair few of the creatures, pausing only to strike them down with his knives before continuing onwards. At the very least, he was lowering the numbers that would descend on his companions.

Worried as he was right then that Aragorn could well be engaged in battle with the Enemy, Legolas hurried onwards, making his way deeper into the fortress.

All was going well until he inadvertently stumbled directly into the path of at least twenty Uruk-hai, all having heard the horns crying for help from their comrades in battle and heading out to the battle that the Men had started. Both stopped in their tracks, face to face, eyeing each other up. The surprise at seeing an Elf in their path made the Uruk-hai startled enough to baffle them for a moment. Then the Uruks suddenly growled in anger, advancing on the solitary Elf in their path, deciding that seeing it dead was more important than understanding why it had come. Running not being an option, Legolas had no choice but to stand and fight.

Heading boldly towards the advancing Uruks, Legolas raised his weapons defiantly. This whole situation reminded him rather too much of the last fight he had fought in at Mirkwood but at least from that experience he now found himself prepared.

The Uruk-hai were strong, driven by their fury at the intrusion by one of the hated Firstborn into their stronghold. Legolas stood alone, just two knives against the multiple, varied weaponry of the Uruks. Vastly outnumbered and disadvantaged, Legolas fought with all his strength, parrying the heavy blows the Uruk-hai rained down on him. Here in the constricted corridor, he found it awkward fighting the vicious creatures. Outside, where by now the battle between the forces of Light and Shadow no doubt raged, it would have been easier to fight, he would have had the space and backup from his companions but this was the task he had appointed himself so he was determined to see it through no matter how many Uruks he had to kill to do so.

Legolas wasn't quite sure how the Uruks managed to get the better of him in the end. One minute he was holding his own against the monsters, the next he was sprawled on the floor amidst the laughing Uruks. They didn't waste a second in ensuring that he would not get back up. Heavily booted feet kicked him hard while he instinctively tried to curl up against the blows.

The knives with which he had been fighting lay sprawled on the ground, Legolas saw amongst the legs of the Uruk-hai. He reached out one hand in an attempt to drag one closer but a foot, whether by accident or design, trod on his hand and he drew it back with a hiss of pain as soon as the foot was lifted. For the moment, the Uruks were satisfied with simply beating him for their amusement but Legolas knew that this distraction would not last for long and then the creatures would get rid of him before moving on to the attackers outside.

With determination, he gritted his teeth against the pain and stretched out his arm until his fingertips slid over the smooth handle of his knife and he was able to drag it toward himself. Picking up the knife, he quickly aimed at the closest thing before the Uruks had a chance to disarm him again.

The closest thing to him just happened to be an Uruk foot, which was a good enough target for Legolas in his desperation. With considerable force, he thrust his blade downwards. A great shriek echoed down the entire length of the corridor as the deadly-sharp knife sliced clean through leather boot, flesh and bone alike. Amusingly, the startled creature hopped backwards, toppling into its fellows in a clatter of armour and a round of shouts. The shock of the creatures presented Legolas with just the opportunity he needed to gain his feet and, although beaten and bruised from the attack, regain some semblance of strength.

Leaping up, he used the Uruks momentary disorientation to dispatch a couple more of the foul creatures. At this bloodshed, however, the Uruks, having recovered themselves somewhat, leapt back into action, swarming over Legolas, all amusement now gone. Now was the time to kill this invading nuisance.

But now, Legolas fought more fiercely than before and before they knew it, their numbers had been dramatically reduced to just five. Legolas was also pushing the remaining Uruk-hai further down the corridor, simultaneously killing Uruks and moving closer to his intended destination, for surely the possibility that more servants of the Shadow would soon be coming along this way was high given the battle raging outside. There was no time to lose.

Before long, only one Uruk remained standing, naturally it was the strongest and biggest of them all. By this time, Legolas was fast tiring. Already naturally weary, the fight and beating he had had to endure had taken much of his strength. Nevertheless, he held his own against the foul beast that threatened him.

When Legolas found himself shoved hard against the wall of the corridor, his sword knocked from his hand once more, pain shot up his right side, so much so that its force stole his breath away. However, he resisted the impulse to drop his remaining knife and instead forcefully kicked out hard at the snarling Uruk that was leering at him, sending the monster to slam into the opposite wall where he was able to pin it by thrusting almost the entire length of his blood-slickened knife straight through its abdomen until he could feel the rough, hard stone of the wall behind grating against its tip.

The creature's yellow eyes widened in surprise, stunned that it had been bested by one of the Firstborn within its own fortress. Then, much to Legolas' utter bewilderment, the crazed abomination started to laugh, thick black blood choking its throat and oozing down its chin and yet it seemed to almost delight in this. It spat blood from its mouth, aiming for the Elf's face, but Legolas merely stepped backwards in disgust, keeping his hand loosely on the handle of his knife, still impaled deeply inside the Uruk.

Still laughing even as it began to choke on its own thick blood, the creature started to speak in slurred, gurgling and horribly unpractised Westron, so heavily accented that Legolas would have found it difficult to understand at the best of times even had blood not been bubbling up in its throat.

"You might have won this round, Elf, but victory will still belong to us in the end."

"We shall see," Legolas said softly in return before pulling out his knife in one swift motion, leaving the chuckling Uruk to crumple to the floor.

As Legolas turned, intent on getting away before more Uruk-hai came by this way, the creature, now lying half propped up against the bloody wall called after him, "Abandon your cause now, Prince of Mirkwood."

Legolas stopped dead in his tracks then slowly turned back, asking in a low voice, "What did you call me?"

The Uruk laughed, enjoying the fact that it had gotten Legolas' attention and that fear now shone in darkened blue eyes. It made Legolas wait for the explanation, realising how it bothered the Elf. To annoy him further, the creature feigned a coughing fit, making sure to splatter Legolas' boots with blood whilst doing so – some small enjoyment in its last moments of life. When, however, Legolas started to advance again with his knife dripping with the black blood of his fellows and a murderous glint in his eyes, the creature decided to delay no longer.

"Yes, we know who you are." It paused then, as if reaching for some kind of sick dramatic effect. "And _He_ knows you too."

A cold chill ran through Legolas, for there could be no doubt that the Dark Lord was the 'He' the Uruk was referring to. Striding over to the dying creature, unable to ignore the warning, Legolas grabbed it and pulled it almost to its feet before shoving it hard against the wall, staring unflinchingly into glowing yellow eyes filled with horror and evil. The Uruk spat more foul blood at the Elf, this time unintentional as it coughed and spluttered at the movement. As far as Legolas knew, the Uruk-hai did not feel pain, or if they did then they paid it no heed – indeed this beast seemed almost happy that its death was being so prolonged, and having the rare opportunity to play with the mind of one of the Firstborn.

"You lie!" Legolas accused hotly.

Laughing in Legolas' face, the Uruk swallowed more of its own blood, licking its lips at the taste. It knew this motion disgusted Legolas as the Elf's face grimaced at the thought. "I do not," it chuckled after a moment. "My master will come."

"How? How could he know of me?" Legolas demanded, shaking the Uruk hard when it seemed to weaken in his grasp. It didn't have much longer on this earth but Legolas was determined to get his information before its passing. "Answer me."

Leaning closer that they were almost nose-to-nose, the creature answered, "You are being watched, Elf. You and your child king." Legolas paled even further. It knew of Aragorn, therefore Sauron also knew and although this did not come as a complete shock it was nevertheless deeply worrying. "He is going to find you and put a bloody end to your futile crusade."

In spite of Legolas' fear, he would not give the Uruk any further pleasure before its end, and he growled back, "Maybe so, but _you_ won't be alive to see it."

Amidst more almost hysterical laughing, Legolas released the seemingly delirious creature just long enough to break its thick neck and put an end to its revelling. Breathless, Legolas stood for a moment, mulling over what he had just learned. Troubling as the truth may have been though, there was nothing he could do about it in that exact moment and it didn't really pose an immediate problem. Sauron was not at the fortress of the Rohan people. One battle at a time; Helm's Deep was all he could worry about right then.

So, stepping over the Uruk's bloody corpse, Legolas proceeded onwards to the end of the dark corridor. As he hurried alone though, the pain he'd felt earlier in his side flared again, reminding him that he had been injured in this most recent fight. Transferring his knife from his right hand into his left along with the other that he had retrieved, Legolas pressed his palm against where the pain was and it throbbed again and he felt a wet warmth coating his skin. Pulling his shirt away from where it clung to his body, Legolas glanced down to find dark blood now staining it. That much blood couldn't have come from a mere scratch as he had initially hoped. Still, there was no time to worry about it now.

Hurrying along, Legolas descended the high staircase leading to the bottom level of the fortress, sitting just above the network of caves. He met no further resistance along the way but when he arrived at the corridor been aiming for, two more Uruk-hai were stood on guard on either side of a solid metal-reinforced door. Although the odds this time were better than previously, Legolas was not taking the threat lightly, they were still dangerous creatures no matter what their numbers.

This time though, it only took a few well-placed strokes of his blade to dispatch the two unsuspecting creatures with minimum fuss. Legolas leaned over their dead bodies, searching for the key to the door they had failed in guarding. Then he entered this most horrible of places.

Legolas walked up to the first of twelve heavy iron doors, rusting from age and neglect, that lined a long, thin corridor. The smell down here in the fortress' cell block was horrendous and upon peering into the first cell, Legolas understood why – a rotten body, brown and greasy where it had begun to decay laid against the far wall at the back of the small cell, now beyond all recognition. Legolas took an involuntary step back in disgust, gagging at the stench, which was made all the worse by the confined quarters the cells were housed in.

Not wanting to dwell too long on the grisly image, Legolas inserted the key into the lock and swung open the heavy door to complete the unsavoury task he knew he had to do before he could leave satisfied. It took only a second for Legolas to check the body for clues. What remained of the corpse indicated to him that this was a male who had had dark hair. Not what Legolas was looking for. The Rohirrim had explained to him, with no small amount of reluctance given their commander's open dislike of the Elf, in detail what he should be looking for and although he felt sympathy for all the poor souls who'd ended their miserable lives in these wretched cells, he did not wait around idly before moving on to the next door.

He methodically worked his way along, finding only the dead. There was every chance that this was an exercise in futility but all the same he felt compelled to try. In each cell, he found only skeletons or rotting corpses, sometimes many packed into the small spaces, decomposing remains sitting atop bodies fully stripped of flesh. It was a disturbing thought, that these men had died so horrifically.

It wasn't until he reached the very end cell that something caught his eye. As he threw open the last door in the row he saw four almost skeletonised remains chained up against the damp walls. All four were clearly men. It was a woman he searched for. However, at the very back of the cell on the floor, not held by chains but shrouded in a ragged, threadbare blanket stained with fluids Legolas did not even want to think about, laid another body. No movement came from beneath the filth-stained blanket and yet Legolas stepped over to it, tentatively reaching out a hand to pull away the cover to reveal what lay beneath.

The almost inhuman screech that pierced the silence made Legolas leap back in fright. The cry was cut off abruptly when the blanket dropped back down and the cell block fell eerily silent again. For a moment, Legolas paused to give his heart time to slow to a more acceptable rate, then he took a cautious step forward. The person who had been hidden beneath the blanket was perhaps the most pitiful creature Legolas had seen in all his days. It was obviously a woman as she had no clothing on her body. She was practically skin and bones, starved almost to the point of death. Her head had been completely shaved of all her hair although short prickles that had grown up on her wounded scalp indicated that she was blonde. Wounds from both physical punishment and natural neglect, spotted her emaciated body, which was a mess of scars visible beneath the dirt. Apart from a constant shuddering and the irregular breathing, the woman laid completely frozen on the ground, facing away from Legolas, hands pressed tightly to her ears as if by simply ignoring her apparent tormentor she could make said visitor retreat.

Legolas, however, did not turn away, but rather moved steadily closer, avoiding treading on the other rotting, putrid bodies that cluttered his path, and crouched down behind the trembling woman.

Upon sensing the intruder close to her, the woman let out another high-pitched, keening screech – a defence mechanism built into her from years of experience of hurt, Legolas thought - but this time he did not flinch away. He reached out and very slowly and carefully moved her over onto her back. Gently, he took her wrists, so thin he feared they would snap under even his light touch. She was so weak that she could do little to resist as he pulled her hands away from her ears. Despite her obvious frailty, she fought viciously when Legolas moved closer still with the intention of lifting her off the dirty, cold stone floor. Flailing hands and legs were aimed at him and he feared that restraining her might make things worse for the obviously terrified woman, who clearly considered him to be foe rather than friend – or maybe she found it impossible after years of torment and neglect to tell the difference.

"Stop," Legolas commanded as gently as he could amidst the feeble blows she was raining down on him. "I am trying to help you." In response she screamed again, loud and feral. "Listen to me, I am not going to hurt you." This reassurance did not seem to get through to her in her wild panic though and she continued now to howl loudly, her one and only defence, flimsy though it was, against mistreatment. Legolas searched his mind for something that_ would_ get through to her. Carefully, he lifted her trembling, light body so that she was propped up a little on his lap, then said in a clear, loud voice so that she could understand, "Your brother sent me to help you, Eowyn."

The screaming ceased so abruptly that it left Legolas' ears ringing. Then eyes, which had previously been screwed tightly shut, cracked open. Even in the dark of the cell, Legolas could tell immediately that this woman was indeed Eomer's sister thought lost. Deep green, expressive eyes reluctantly met Legolas' and he smiled kindly to reassure her.

"Eowyn," he said the name softly now that her cries had died down. Her eyes widened further, showing that she at very least recognised the sound of her own name, even if she might not have heard it spoken in many years. Encouraged by the response, Legolas repeated, "Eowyn. That is your name?"

Biting hard on her already bleeding bottom lip, she nodded very slightly, weakly.

"Eowyn, my name is Legolas. I am a friend of your brother Eomer. He is here at Helm's Deep."

Panic lit her eyes then and she shook her head, her mouth opening as if she wanted to speak but the noise came out as little more than a raspy croak. Even so, Legolas managed to interpret what she was trying to say – 'No'.

"It is fine," he assured but then looked to the open cell door, picturing more of the minions of Sauron running down the corridor, tripping over the mess of Uruk-hai corpses he'd left behind. "But, Eowyn, we have to go now."

Again, Eowyn seemed to panic, weakly pushing her hand against Legolas' chest as if to put some distance between them. She was scared of him.

"All will be well," he gently told her, slipping his arms out from under her so she rested fully against his knees, leaving him free to shrug off his jacket. He laid the dirty garment onto her naked form, wrapping it as best he could around her. Once more, she was shaking her head desperately, afraid, it seemed, of leaving her cell. Legolas, however, ignored her feeble protests and gathered her up into his arms and stood. Making sure that she was held securely in his grip, Legolas told her, "Let's get you out of here now."

Legolas moved quickly through the cell block then past the two dead Uruk guards, at which point Eowyn hid her face beneath the collar of his jacket.

He made it all the way up the tall flight of stairs before he met any resistance. The footsteps he'd heard racing towards him turned out to be a mere goblin who was so stunned to see an Elf carrying a small bundle of a woman in his arms that all Legolas had to do was give the small creature a hard shove with his foot, sending it tumbling down the stairs to its death.

Although Eowyn had her eyes covered, she recognised the danger and started crying again, although mercifully not the dreadful keening noise she had made before. Legolas made no attempt to console her. He was more focused on getting them both out alive.

Barely pausing, Legolas hurried along the corridors, only slowing to carefully pick his way through the bloody corpses of the Uruks he'd slain on his way in who remained strewn on the floor. He was pleased that Eowyn still had her face buried beneath his jacket for surely the emotionally fragile woman would not have taken well to seeing the slaughtered Uruk-hai.

As he reached the entrance through which he had arrived, Legolas ran into a major problem – the hall was swarming with agents of the Shadow: Uruk-hai, Orcs and Goblins hurried everywhere, rushing to barricade the doors to keep the attacking Men out of the fortress. Legolas was mildly pleased about this. The Men had them on the run.

Good as that was though, it still left the Elf with a problem: he was trapped inside with at least forty creatures who would pretty soon be intent on killing him and he had no help and a considerable burden in his arms.

The heavy door was suddenly being pounded upon from the outside – the Men were trying to gain entrance. From the barricade the Enemy was building, Legolas guessed that it would be some time before the Men were successful. He could have waited, retreated back into the depths of Helm's Deep and found somewhere to hide away with Eowyn until the combined forces of the Rohirrim and Rangers broke into the fortress and dispatched with the creatures of Sauron. But Legolas' conscience would never allow for this. He could not leave the Humans to fight alone whilst he cowered away from the danger. In his life already he had done enough hiding, enough running. No longer could he abide cowardice.

So, Legolas retraced his steps and once he was stood in the second corridor away from the main entrance hall, he yanked open the closest door. After quickly assuring himself that it was completely empty, Legolas went to the far wall then carefully crouched so he could lay the trembling Eowyn down on the floor.

At the change of situation, she shrugged the jacket away from her face and imploringly reached out a skeletal hand to her saviour in a questioning gesture.

"You must stay put. I have to help my comrades and I cannot risk taking you with me," he explained quickly, readjusting his jacket to cover as much of her naked form as he could.

An odd whimpering noise issued from the back of her throat and her green eyes shone in terror and pleading as her weak fingers curled around his shirt in a feeble attempt to keep him from leaving.

It was easy for him to pry her off, she had almost no strength in the twig-like digits. "Eowyn, do not fear. You will be safe here until my return." Wide-eyed, she shook her head. "I_ will_ come back for you, I swear it. Then I will take you to your brother."

His calm words got through to her and through her fear and confusion, she knew him to be sincere so she nodded this time, relinquishing her pathetically weak hold on his comparatively strong hand.

"Stay here and stay quiet, no matter what."

With that simple instruction, he was up and had shot out the door, closing it behind him so as not to attract the notice of any creature that might be passing by. He wasted no time in running into the entrance hall where the intruders remained holding the Men outside at bay. There was no point in delaying, prolonging the inevitable.

The first few Uruks didn't know what exactly struck them down and amidst the confusion in the hall no other enemy noticed the arrows flying from the direction of the corridor nor their comrades dropping to the ground dead. Even after Legolas had used his full complement of arrows and switched to his knives, taking out the Orcs, Uruk-hai and Goblins closest to him first, the mass of creatures barely noticed. It was, in fact, only after Legolas had slaughtered in hand to hand combat six of the Uruks, four Orcs and eight Goblins that anyone noticed his presence at all. Then the creatures began screeching out the alert – there was an enemy amongst them. Then there was no retreating for the Elf after that. It turned into all-out raging war in the entrance hall of Helm's Deep.

Vastly outnumbered, Legolas knew that this was not going to be an easy victory. Angry Orcs lunged at him, Goblins tried to outwit him whilst the superior Uruk-hai stood back, letting the lesser orders attempt to deal with the Elf before they dared get involved.

Legolas was fast though. Orcs fell at the strokes of his two glinting blades and the smaller, more cowardly Goblins retreated back towards the Uruk-hai. He made for an impressive sight, this fierce blonde Elf. Any creature brave – or foolish – enough to plunge into a mass of creatures allied to the Shadow was to be respected at the very least or feared in the extreme.

**To Be Continued…**


	36. Victory In The Deep

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 36 – Victory in the Deep**

"Force the doors open! Open them up!" Kinnale yelled to his attacking Rangers, hoping that his voice was not swallowed up in the noise of vicious battle. They stood now before the great wooden doors to the Keep, half a dozen trying to gain entrance to the innermost sanctum of the Deep whilst the others held the Enemy at bay, buying their colleagues more time.

The walkway was chaos. Orcs charged at them, under orders to keep the Men back at all costs, swords clashed, blood sprayed freely, although not as much red as black.

In response to his commander's shouted order, Veron ground out, "You don't think we're trying?" as he rammed at the solid door with his shoulder.

Kinnale made no response to the terse remark as he hacked at the progressing Orc bodies threatening his men. A line of just six men were holding back the Enemy but there seemed to be an endless supply of vile creatures and as fast as they were slain or thrown over the edge of the elevated ramp they were replaced by equally vicious monsters, uncaring whether they joined their fellows in death. There were worse fates than dying by the hands of Men when allied to the Lord of all Darkness.

Down below them on the ground fought the Rohirrim, remaining firmly under Eomer's command. For once, they were joined by the remaining Rangers, whom Kinnale had left under Janor's command. Aragorn was also fighting on the ground level. The boy had been ordered by Legolas before he left to remain close to Kinnale, perhaps the one person Legolas trusted wholly with the young man's care, but when Kinnale had given the direction to infiltrate the primary structure he'd declared that Aragorn should remain on the ground with Janor rather than going with the commander of the Rangers. Legolas would undoubtedly not be too happy when he discovered that the commander had left his precious ward in the keep of another but Kinnale had reasoned that neither would Legolas be pleased if said ward was placed unnecessarily in a highly dangerous position on the ramp.

The army of Shadow encamped at Helm's Deep was larger than any of them could have anticipated and that fact angered Eomer and the others, giving them reason and drive to fight with even more ferocity than was usual. Once, this fortress had belonged to the world of Men but the Shadow had taken it from them, defiled it with their very presence and now Eomer wanted it back. He was determined that the banner of Rohan would fly over the Deep by nights' end.

In spite of the Lord of Rohan's resolve, however, the Orcs fairly swarmed over the courtyard, undaunted it seemed by the attacking Rohirrim. No matter how many of the foul creatures the Men killed, they seemed to hardly be making a dent in the Orc masses.

Eomer continued to yell orders above the intense noise of death and battle but his Rohirrim, a mere one hundred and fifty Men against the Shadow's encamped legion of almost a thousand could not follow them, too busy with their own individual skirmishes to worry about the bigger picture. So, after a while, Eomer's precise and coherent commands dissolved into a simple and almost primal battle cry – encouragement for those facing their deaths.

With every one of his Men that fell to an Orc blade, anger burned hotter in Eomer's veins. It forced him to continue, to ignore the pain drawn by a wound on his left arm, ignore the fatigue that threatened him and the horror of the sights and sounds of war.

It was not, however, all anger aimed at the Shadow that fuelled his fiery rage. It was anger at the one who had suggested this futile, suicidal attack on the Deep in the first place – a certain ill-favoured Elven prince. In Eomer's mind, as he slashed at another attacking Goblin, every death sustained here tonight was more blood on the Elf's hands.

It would be worth surviving this night just to throttle Legolas with his bare hands.

**OIOI**

On the other side of the Keep, itself heaving with Orcs and Goblins – although mercifully the Uruk-hai remained in the places they believed a commanding appearance mattered, mostly on the front line – Aragorn was fighting alongside Janor. Actually, between them they were doing surprisingly well. Kinnale's order had been to attack the creatures from three sides – the front, where Eomer was; the main structure, which Kinnale himself and his Rangers were trying to penetrate; and the back where Aragorn now battled along with a few others. There were certainly less targets here than the other hotspots and yet the Enemy fought with equal ferocity. The Men had initially been outnumbered but now there were less than twenty Orcs left standing, a significant dent in the Shadow's army, it seemed.

In a matter of minutes, this small area of Helm's Deep was claimed back by the Humans and the Rangers took a momentary breather to rejoice in this small victory. It was short-lived, however, for the battle still raged on in other parts of the keep. With their comrades in desperate need of help, Janor swiftly ordered his men to go and join the others.

Before the older man could race off though, Aragorn grabbed his arm and said breathlessly, "I have to find Legolas."

"Aragorn, no."

"I have to. He could need my help."

"He ordered you to stay with us. Respect his wishes." Seeing that Aragorn was not convinced by this plea, Janor further reasoned, "You are needed down here. We need you fighting, not scouring the battlefield searching for Legolas."

"Come on if we're going!" Tarsem, the Rangers' ill-tempered scout snapped at the conversing pair as he dashed past them, sword dripping with Orc blood and craving to spill more yet.

Patting Aragorn's back in reassurance, Janor led him quickly after the scout. "Don't worry about Legolas. He can take care of himself."

**OIOI**

"Kill it! Kill it!" the Uruk in charge of the armies of Helm's Deep bellowed above the clamour of battle. One lone Elf should not be causing such chaos amongst their ranks; such disruption to the plan and defence of the Keep must not be allowed. And yet Orcs kept falling to the Elf's deadly twin blades. Now the Uruk-hai had – somewhat reluctantly – joined in the fight, hoping that their additional strength could cease the Elf's tirade of slaughter. So far though, their attempts had not been at all successful and it was starting to irritate the current commander of the Deep.

From outside, the doors continued to be pounded upon by the relentless Humans and with all the Shadow army's attentions focused on bringing down the Elf running wild within the inner sanctum of their Lord's fortress, the barricade was weakening by the second. Cursing foully in its native tongue, the Uruk shoved its great weight against the cracking door in immense anger. He would not be beaten by these ignorant attackers.

As yet another Goblin toppled backwards with its neck twisted and snapped and its head flopping at a sickening angle, falling at the commander's feet, a flash of pale white amidst black bodies and blood caught the Uruk's eye. It focused its shrewd eyes on the shape loitering in the corridor opposite and a small smile cracked its hideous face. Abandoning single-handedly barricading the doors, the Uruk cut around the fighting, making its way towards what could prove to be the end of this particular battle.

Legolas swung his knife, precisely aimed to cut off the head of one particularly persistent Orc, leaving the creature's bulky, malformed body to drop to the floor and its ugly head to swiftly join it. Almost immediately another two replaced it. He had made a considerable dent in the numbers swarming in the entrance chamber to Helm's Deep but at least twenty of the creatures still remained standing and fighting.

"Elf," a deep baritone voice cut clearly through the battle in what Legolas could only really describe as a pleased sing-song tone. "Elf? Look what I have here."

Momentarily taking his eyes off the immediate problem in front of him, Legolas rapidly searched the hall for the source of the taunting voice calling to him. When he saw the commander of the Uruk-hai dragging Eowyn's limp, terrified form through the sickening mass of dead Orcs littering the floor using her slight frame as a human shield, his blood froze. He'd thought he had left her safe. Obviously he had been mistaken.

"Throw down your weapons. Drop them to the ground," the voice commanded and the Orcs and other creatures took a slow step backwards, knowing that their leader was now in control of the situation and that the Elf was defeated. As they retreated though, they laughed cruelly at the Elf and the predicament he had been placed in. "Drop them now or I'll snap her head right off her neck." A large clawed hand went threatening to Eowyn's throat, braced to go through with its threat. The Uruk stepped through its protective ring of Orcs and Goblins to give Legolas the best possible view of what was happening. "There is no way out for either of you."

Legolas glanced discreetly down to the twin knives in his hands, dripping with blood. "True," he mumbled to himself and then, before the Uruk could even think to react, Legolas threw one of the deadly-sharp knives right at the creature's head. This was no time to mess about. Before the monster had dropped to the ground, Legolas' long knife embedded deep into its skull, the Elf was running forward in an attempt to catch Eowyn before she fell to the ground along with the now dead bulky creature who'd taken her hostage.

He was not successful, however, and Eowyn, stunned into paralysis by what was happening to her, was crushed beneath the heavy Uruk.

Unfortunately, there was little Legolas could do about it right then because the surrounding monsters now advanced towards him again, furious that the Elf had murdered their leader.

Their anger fuelled their strength, just as it did the Men outside, and they attacked Legolas with renewed vigour.

Legolas, however, was already thoroughly exhausted after taking down almost forty Orcs and Uruks single-handedly and found it suddenly hard to throw his arm hard enough or accurately enough to make any impact on the remaining enemies.

So, when one of the Uruk-hai managed to sneak behind him and strike him hard over the head with the club it carried, Legolas fell to his knees without resistance. Still seeing stars, Legolas could do little but watch as the other creatures crowded around him, glee at the thought that they might taste Elf-flesh this day after all, replacing their previous battle fury.

The scene, Legolas mused idly, was chillingly reminiscent of the final moments of his father as he had witnessed on his last day in Mirkwood. The prince was surrounded by blood-thirsty monsters, each one longing to deliver the final fatal blow to this most hated of enemies.

For decades, through his painful loneliness, Legolas had longed for this final moment of his wretched life. He'd almost imagined that death would come as a great relief. And yet now, knelt on the cold flagstones, slick with the blood of Orcs, of Helm's Deep, Legolas found that he felt something quite unexpected: fear at what was coming.

If he died here, then Aragorn would be all alone in his mission.

Startling, Legolas realised with a jolt that he no longer welcomed death. When had that revelation happened? His chest ached with the pain of regret, no longer for his questionable past actions, but for this moment here, for allowing himself to fall and for however brief a moment rejoicing in it.

Goblins, snapping and excitable, tugged with their long, filthy fingers at his blood-stained clothing almost teasingly. They wanted to play with him for a while before they finally disposed of him. This angered Legolas even further but there was nothing much he could do about it. As he'd fallen to his knees, his weapon had been ripped from his hand and thrown far out of his reach; he had nothing left to fight with. And with the creatures now surrounding him, baying for his blood, he could not regain his feet.

Outside, the Men were still trying to break the door down but Legolas guessed they would not get in soon enough. He was all alone.

Or…not quite alone.

As he knelt there on the floor waiting for his inevitable demise to come, the Orcs became distracted all of a sudden and when Legolas looked up from the flagstones he realised why. Eowyn was standing behind them with Legolas' white-handled knife clutched tightly in both hands, swinging wildly and inaccurately at the Orcs threatening her saviour. Unfortunately, not one of her strokes actually connected with anything and the Orcs found the sight of their prisoner, wide-eyed and so obviously terrified, wearing an over-sized jacket to cover her nakedness, swinging feebly at them, to be highly amusing rather than threatening.

Their amusement created just the kind of distraction Legolas had been hoping for and it gave him a chance to get to his feet, knocking away the startled Uruk stood next to him. With their attentions on Eowyn, Legolas snatched up the scimitar dropped by the creature he'd just disposed of and killed another two Orcs straight away before they even realised what was happening.

Whilst the Elf attacked the creatures of Shadow again, it still wasn't enough to remove their attentions entirely away from the young woman and four of the Orcs, ignoring the Elf, advanced menacingly towards her.

Eowyn swung the knife at them in an effort to scare them back but in her current state it hardly made for a terrifying figure. They simply sneered, undeterred, and advanced closer. In fright of her captors, the light knife slipped from her shaking fingers and clattered to the floor and she backed away from them.

Just as the Orcs went to grab her and she heard Legolas desperately shout her name, the doors behind her suddenly splintered and then burst violently open. Leaping aside to avoid the stampede, Eowyn could only stare wide-eyed at the Men who stormed inside, chased seconds later by even more Orcs.

In the melee, she was pushed again to the floor and she curled herself into a protective ball against the wall as many feet trampled past her, unaware of her existence in their haste. Pressing her hands to her ears and squeezing her eyes shut tight against the brutal violence going on all around her, she remained quiet and still as all around her Orcs and Goblins fell to Human swords.

Then she felt something light touch on her shoulder. She startled and shrunk away from the touch but then gentle, familiar hands were pulling her hands away from her ears.

"Eowyn, all is well now," Legolas' voice whispered reassuringly as she found herself lifted from the ground.

"Who is that?" Kinnale, wiping black blood off his sword and onto the filthy tunic of a dead Uruk, asked breathlessly of the Elf, seeing him carrying a quivering bundle in his arms.

Rather than answering though, Legolas strode towards the doorway. "Let's go."

Inside the main structure, the Men had proven successful in getting rid of the Enemy hoards and outside in the courtyard the others seemed to be enjoying similar success. Bar a few fights dotted around, the battle was finally over. Some of the creatures had fled, realising that their command over Helm's Deep was at an end, but most lay dead or dying on the ground now saturated with blood.

"Hey," Kinnale said, catching Legolas' elbow and holding him back as the Elf went to carefully pick his way through the mess of fallen creatures that littered the walkway. "You are injured!"

Remembering suddenly that he had indeed been injured in the fight with the Uruk-hai, Legolas glanced down at his shirt, surprised to see the blood stain there so visible. He quickly played down the injury, reassuring the man, "It's just a scratch."

"Legolas if you…"

"Really, Kinnale, it is fine," Legolas sharply reiterated, already moving again, distracted by the scene of the courtyard before him. Although taking in the Orkish and Human bodies strewn on the ground, Legolas was in truth, only searching for that which he feared losing the most. "Kinnale," he called back to the commander, who was now giving orders to his men to secure the Keep, "where is Aragorn?"

Kinnale looked across to him in a sharp movement betraying his instinctive guilt. He could not lie to the Elf about his ward, however, so he admitted, "I deemed it to be too dangerous for Aragorn to storm the doors with me so I left him with Janor."

"Legolas!"

"You left him?" Legolas growled out, turning on the man with undisguised anger at what he had just been told.

"Legolas!"

"I told you not to leave him!"

"It wasn't like I had a whole lot of choice in the matter," Kinnale defended his actions, willing Legolas to calm down before he reached him and thus was able to throttle him with his bare hands as he now looked quite inclined to do.

"Legolas, I want to talk with you."

Pointedly ignoring Eomer's voice coming ever closer and sounding increasingly irate, Legolas turned away from the relieved Ranger and strode down the ramp even as Eomer stomped towards him, pausing only when he had to kick an Orc corpse out of his path.

"Thirty-two men! I lost thirty-two men in this attack!" Eomer yelled as he approached the Elf.

"Have you seen Aragorn anywhere?" Legolas calmly asked of the furious man.

This only incensed Eomer further and he stopped abruptly and waited for Legolas to reach him before continuing to shout, "Did you hear what I just said? Thirty-two men!"

"Yes, I heard you." Although the big man stood in front of him now, Legolas' eyes were still scanning the courtyard around him. It was hard to distinguish much at all in the mess left behind after the battle, everything seemed to be covered in a thick layer of black Orc blood, even the men searching the yard for survivors among the destruction were smeared in the foul liquid.

"Great! They are my men, Legolas."

"Yes. Have you…?"

"Hey," Eomer shouted, snagging Legolas' arm and bringing him to a halt, "how can you be so blasé about this? My men are injured, they need medical aid and rest and…are you even listening to me?" the man demanded angrily. When a soft whimper emitted from Legolas, Eomer noticed for the first time that the Elf carried something – someone – in his arms. "Who is that?" he asked sharply.

Legolas looked down as if only just remembering that he had been carrying someone around with him all this time. He shifted the slight weight in his arms and held out his precious burden for Eomer, who stood stunned by the action, to take.

"What?" Eomer asked in confusion upon taking what Legolas offered him.

The Elf was already making his way down the ramp when he explained bluntly, "Your sister."

For a long moment, Eomer stood frozen, staring at the empty spot where Legolas had just stood, unable to move or speak or breathe as the words sank in. When he did dare to look down at the weight in his arms, soft green eyes, so painfully familiar, blinked owlishly up at him from the safety of behind the collar of Legolas' jacket. Suddenly, Eomer's breath exploded out of him in a ragged sob of emotion. Fearing that he may very well drop his precious sister should he remain standing, Eomer sank weakly to his knees.

Tears ran freely down his cheeks and to his utter amazement, a thin, bony hand emerged from beneath ragged fabric and brushed against his pale, wet face.

Any semblance of composure he'd been clinging to evaporated at his sister's touch. He cried Eowyn's name and pulled her to his chest, holding her as tight as he dared. She clung to his armour as he cried on her. This was undoubtedly her brother and she felt no fear that he would harm her. Closing her eyes, she breathed his name, revelling in the sound of it.

Even as Kinnale and other concerned Men approached to ask what on earth could have broken the ill-tempered commander of the Rohirrim in this way, brother and sister sat oblivious. No one else mattered in that moment for Eomer.

Meanwhile, Legolas' mind too was singularly focused on another. He ignored the tired, injured Men he passed, looking only for Aragorn.

When he found Janor, who was supposed, according to Kinnale, to be looking after the young Aragorn, sifting through Orc carcasses, presumably looking for Human survivors, his heart raced in irrational fear. Aragorn was nowhere to be seen. Legolas ran over to the second in command, calling his name urgently.

Janor looked around himself, alarmed. When he realised that, despite the Elf's desperate tone, there was no Orc or Uruk stood behind him waiting to cut him down, Janor sighed and frowned in confusion at Legolas.

"What?" the man asked with an indignant shrug.

"Aragorn. Where is Aragorn?" Legolas demanded breathlessly, reaching Janor.

"Oh. He's right over there."

Legolas followed the direction of Janor's pointed finger with his eyes and finally saw a dirty Aragorn knelt on the ground, helping a couple of the Rohirrim tend to one of their fallen comrades.

Able to breathe easily again now that the pressure on his chest had eased, Legolas headed toward the young man, ignoring Janor's questioning if he was alright.

Aragorn looked up at his name being called and, upon seeing his mentor's face, he smiled in relief that Legolas remained standing after the battle. However, currently his fingers were the only things plugging an injured man's artery so he couldn't get up to greet the Elf as he wished to.

Legolas stood over them and smiled in return. "Are you injured?" he got straight to the point.

"Nothing major," Aragorn promised. "You?"

The Elf discreetly turned to his side so that Aragorn would not be able to see the blood that caked his shirt. The man was busy; he didn't need to worry unnecessarily. So he echoed Aragorn's words. "Nothing major."

Aragorn nodded, his attention drawn back to the man laid out before him.

Much as he would have liked to look at Aragorn, reassuringly fine, for the rest of the day, Legolas knew that there were still things to be done. So, he told Aragorn that he would be at the main structure then wandered off to look for Kinnale. Firstly, he needed a report from the Ranger and then the clean-up would begin. Men would need treatment for their injuries; those who had lost their lives would have to be retrieved from amongst the Enemy. There was much yet to do in Helm's Deep.

**To Be Continued…**


	37. Help

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks so much for all your kind reviews. I love getting them. They really make me feel like I should continue writing this story even when it gets difficult, which it has several times already! Sorry the last one was a bit short. Hopefully, this new chapter posted early should make up for it.**

**So, here's the next chapter for you all. Enjoy.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 37 – Help**

"Eomer is still with his sister. I didn't have the heart to tear him away despite all that needs his attention," Kinnale spoke softly to Legolas as they walked carefully amongst the fallen creatures of Mordor through which they were picking in search of survivors to dispose of – or help if it were one of their own people still lucky enough to be living. "To be honest, I don't think I could have pried him from her side if I used all my strength."

Legolas sighed deeply, sharp eyes focused on the ground rather than on the man walking steadily at his side. "He's only just got her back after their prolonged separation; it is understandable that he does not wish to leave her alone just yet. Let him have his time with her."

"Yes. You never know, it might improve his mood some," Kalub, the Rangers' tracker who walked with them, dead-panned.

"I think _that_ is wishful thinking, my old friend," Kinnale chuckled in amusement. "Having said that, he didn't snap at me as he usually would when I went to speak to him earlier about the clear-up, so I suppose that's a step in the right direction."

It felt strange to Legolas that in amongst all this macabre carnage, whilst hundreds of bloodied Orc corpses through which the three of them were now trudging littered the ground of the Deep, searching for the three Rohirrim men that remained unaccounted for, Kinnale and Kalub could still find humour. To Legolas, being here in the dark, broken only occasionally by the flickering of torches that the men had kept burning, was a truly stomach-churning position to be in. Yes, the Orcs were the Enemy and he could not deny that he rejoiced that there were now several hundred less of monsters in the world but they were foul, vile creatures and being amongst them even dead made him feel dirtied.

"It's amazing that she survived all these years in those rat-infested holes," Kalub mused, bending to retrieve a discarded sword of Rohan from the mud where it had fallen from a warrior's hand during the battle.

"Not really. A princess of Rohan would be a valuable asset to the Shadow, especially if the Rohirrim looked to attack or reclaim the Deep," Legolas reasoned idly, his mind only half on the conversation they were having.

Kinnale muttered darkly, shaking his head, "A perfect human shield."

"In effect."

Twirling the sword skilfully over in his hand, Kalub laughed again. "You blew that plan right out of the water," he enthused toward Legolas, his crooked smile bright. He seemed unaffected by what had occurred here, as if battle was merely a slight distraction to his day and now that it was over he could resume his normal good humour.

The Elf simply glanced briefly in his direction in unashamed distaste. A victory against the Shadow it might have been but Legolas felt only sympathy toward Eowyn, the joy of winning back Helm's Deep dampened by what he had seen that day. He couldn't imagine how awful her time spent as a prisoner in Helm's Deep had been and he didn't find even a hint of amusement in it or her reunion with Eomer as the Men seemed to.

As Kinnale and Kalub continued to banter about their recent and admittedly rather unanticipated victory, Legolas walked in thoughtful silence, eyes only half-focused on the ground before him, mind only just on the task at hand. Certainly, he wasn't listening to the inane conversation going on by his side so it was only when someone tapped his arm that he realised that he was being spoken to directly.

"Don't you think so?" Kalub asked him expectantly, peering across Kinnale to look at the Elf for a response.

"I'm sorry?"

"I was just saying that after our victory the Men should be rewarded. I was thinking of a small celebration. One of the Rohirrim said that the halls here are almost as spectacular as those at Meduseld."

"Yes," Legolas muttered, obviously distracted.

"Personally, I think it's a great idea," Kinnale smiled at his long-time friend. "And with the return of his sister, Eomer might just be in a good enough mood to agree as well."

Kalub laughed at this. "I wouldn't bet on it."

"Right."

Through his laughter, Kinnale looked to Legolas to check he was sharing their amusement at the expense of their comrade only to find that the Elf was no longer by his side as he had been a moment before. He frowned and looked behind him, finding the Elf was stood staring up at the high defensive wall that surrounded the Deep. The Elf was so light-footed that it was impossible to hear his steps so not surprising that his absence had gone momentarily unnoticed by his Human companions.

"Legolas?" Kinnale called, stopping in his tracks to wait for the Elf. "Are you alright?"

Legolas' eyes snapped suddenly back to the two men waiting for him. It was almost as though he had only just realised himself that he had stopped walking. However, he offered the Rangers no reassurance as he mentally shook himself and caught up with them.

"So, do you think it's a good idea? The party?" Kalub pressed even though Legolas still showed absolutely no interest his suggestion and Kinnale had now fallen sombre as he observed the taciturn Elf.

"Really, I don't care what you do, Kalub," Legolas muttered under his breath, his expression dark now, echoing his impatience.

"Excuse me?" Kalub snapped back, at once offended by the tone of the Elf.

Fearing a confrontation between the two rather dour beings on the horizon if he did not intervene, Kinnale ordered of his tracker, "You carry on this way; we'll head back towards the Keep. This unpleasant task will go faster if we three split up." When Kalub continued to glare stand-offishly at Legolas and the Elf did not budge, Kinnale commanded more firmly, "Go, now, Kalub."

With one final glare at a still unrepentant Legolas, Kalub turned sharply and stalked off into the darkness of the courtyard, spirits well and truly dampened by the confrontation with the dour prince.

Now alone, Legolas and Kinnale started up their measured walk again, this time paying no attention to the ground in front of them at all. For a while, the man allowed the silence between them to continue uninterrupted as Legolas obviously wished it so, but when he heard the Elf trip on one of the bulky Uruk corpses that littered the ground, he could no longer hold his silence.

Coming to a halt, Kinnale outright demanded, "Alright, what is wrong with you? Don't tell me that Kalub really ticked you off that much with his talk of partying amidst all the death here."

"No, of course not."

"Then what?"

"Nothing." Legolas' eyes wandered up towards the recaptured Keep idly, not paying attention to the Men swarming over the battlements, securing and clearing the heart of Helm's Deep in the wake of the battle. They were tired, that was obvious from their stiff, sluggish movements, but they kept on going with determination that Legolas had rarely in the past found accredited to the Human race, unwilling to be beaten by the Shadow in even this small matter of cleansing their fortress. They wanted the filth gone entirely before they could rest at ease.

Kinnale sighed heavily as Legolas coolly ignored him with practised ease. He knew Legolas well enough by now to be certain that he wouldn't get anything further out of the Elf on this subject so he changed the direction of the conversation entirely.

"You know that a fair few Orcs escaped from the Deep during the attack, Uruk-hai too."

"Yes."

"You are not worried?"

"That they will report back to their master in Mordor? I am expecting it."

Kinnale was surprised and he asked, "Really?" Legolas nodded as again they headed in the direction of the Keep. "And that doesn't bother you?"

"The Enemy was bound to find out eventually. The timing makes little difference."

"You seem remarkably calm about the fact that with these reports Sauron will know our exact numbers and position." To this accusation, Legolas said nothing and again the man exhaled deeply in his frustration. "I am assuming, then, that you have some kind of plan in mind to follow this up, some thought as to what we should be doing next." He still got no answer from the exasperatingly unforthcoming Elf. No wonder Aragorn always seemed to be endlessly irritated with his guardian. "Alright then, say nothing. It makes no matter to me."

Legolas came to a halt again and glanced across at Kinnale with dark eyes that seemed to be naturally softened by the torchlight. Slowly, gently, the Elf laid his hand on Kinnale's shoulder, moving the man's attention to him. Quietly then he said, "I have been injured. Can you help me back inside?"

For a moment, Kinnale stood dumbfounded by this unexpected confession, staring at the Elf in horror and alarm as Legolas looked steadily back at him in such a casual way that Kinnale wondered if he hadn't perhaps misheard him entirely and he'd actually just confessed to merely feeling rather worn by this whole endeavour and in need of a stiff drink and a good nights' sleep. However, he could not so easily dismiss what he had been told, for it was burned into his mind now and he doubted that Legolas would have spoken such if he had not been really hurt.

Legolas, impossibly proud creature that he was, was asking for his help and yet, still stunned, Kinnale could nothing but stare dumbly, uselessly for what seemed like long minutes. And yet Legolas stood patiently as the man absorbed his admittedly unlikely request, as though anticipating such confusion his words would have presented.

After a moment, Kinnale snapped from his thoughts and focused once more on the Elf with a short shake of the head. "Why didn't you say earlier that you needed medical attention?" was all Kinnale could come up with in reply.

Unfazed by the accusatory tone that had crept into the man's voice, Legolas replied calmly, "Because I didn't feel that I needed attention before."

"But now you do?"

"Hence I am telling you."

Kinnale looked toward the main building in the Deep where candlelight shone almost welcomingly in the windows. "Alright," he finally said, as though only now coming to a decision as to what course of action to take, taking Legolas' arm even though the Elf did not look at that moment like he needed the support. "The Rohirrim travel with a few trained healers; I believe they have set up a kind of triage in one of the halls in the Keep. We should go there."

"Very well."

They walked slowly; Kinnale setting a cautiously steady pace even though the only outward sign that Legolas was not in perfectly normal health was a very slight limp in his right leg. The Elf allowed the fussing without comment, however, and did not withdraw from the support offered. He felt Kinnale's eyes trained on him constantly as they made their way up the slope but he allowed the close scrutiny as well, knowing that it was well-meant if nothing else.

However, by the time they reached the bustling hall where Rohan's healers and appointed helpers were based, Legolas' bravado had diminished somewhat along with his strength and Kinnale had to catch the Elf as he staggered slightly. Holding the prince steady against his side, Kinnale led him further into the hall, urging him to both move quickly and take his time. Still, Legolas held his tongue against the retort that threatened, knowing that the man was helping him as he had been asked to do.

A harassed looking young man hurried toward the two new arrivals, weaving amongst Men laid out on the floor, when they walked through the open door.

"Not another one found alive?" he blurted out without thinking or realising in his frantic state who he was speaking to.

"Such a miracle is unlikely after so much time passed," Legolas reasoned softly in the face of such bluntness.

Rolling his eyes at the young healer and at the Elf by his side, Kinnale nodded to the prince and told the healer, "He was injured in battle and needs aid from a healer."

"Well, join the queue," the healer snapped impatiently, gesturing behind himself at the packed hall and busy healers then running his hand over his forehead in a weary way as though that might justify his tetchiness at their arrival.

"Did you not hear me?"

Legolas laid his hand against Kinnale's arm to placate him and calmly told the healer, "We shall return at a later time when you are not quite so overwhelmed."

"What…?" Kinnale started but already Legolas was limping away and he had no choice but to chase after the Elf. "Legolas!"

"Relax. In all likelihood it is nothing I cannot take care of myself anyway and if I experience any problems then I shall simply return here later."

"But…"

"You mentioned earlier that I had somewhere to rest tonight," Legolas promptly interrupted the protest, steering the conversation away from his stubborn nature and wounded body and pride.

The commander sighed heavily, finally giving up the fight. "Seeing as I already know that you will not be dissuaded, I will show you the way. For a fortress it is remarkably comfortable with regards to lodgings, despite the fact the entire place thoroughly reeks of Orc filth."

Kinnale led Legolas confidently through the dark halls, fairly certain that he was going to right way. In the wake of their victory over the interloping Orcs, the Commander of the Rangers had gone with his Men all through the fortress, flushing out and disposing of any creatures that may have escaped the initial cleansing. Mostly consisting of Goblins, whose natural instinct it was to hide in dark places, it had been a methodical task but despite the tedium they had to be sure that Helm's Deep was indeed clear of the Shadow. Evidence of the Shadow remained everywhere but as of yet, the weary Men of Bree and Edoras had not bothered to clean the rooms or halls of the sights and stenches that the Orcs had left behind them. They were too tired to care for such housework.

Many of the Men had volunteered to join in the search on the battleground for Human survivors but Kinnale knew that so many people frantically searching for fallen comrades, however well-intentioned they were, would be utter chaos, so he had divided them into shifts. One group at a time, consisting of approximately twenty Men, searched the battleground whilst the others went to rest. Aragorn had been part of the first group, as had both Kinnale and Legolas, but whilst the Commander and Prince continued on even after their shift had ended, Aragorn had been sent to sleep.

"Well, this is it." Kinnale stopped before a door half-way down a corridor. "You have the room to yourself. Aragorn is next door. I supposed you would want to be close so you could check on him as you are prone to doing."

Legolas glanced to the door Kinnale pointed to beside his own and nodded thoughtfully, even as he said, "I'll not disturb him now. He'll no doubt need to rest."

"Right. Get yourself settled in and I'll bring you some water and…"

"I have water and a blanket; they'll do me just fine."

Biting his tongue against the sharp retort on the tip of his tongue at the Elf's stubbornness, Kinnale pressed his lips into a thin line to more subtly hint at his displeasure and nodded. "Very well. I'll be around if you need anything. And, Legolas, promise me you'll go back to the healers if you need to."

"You have my solemn promise, Kinnale," Legolas smiled gently through the dark at the man.

Still smiling after the exasperated man, Legolas let himself into his room and went straight over to the dark fireplace. Inside the room, his pack had earlier been placed and now he pulled it towards himself, rummaging through until he found his blanket, a spare shirt and his water flask. Quickly, he set about making a fire in the stone hearth, breaking up the already irreparably damaged chair from the corner to use as firewood. With the light making the whole room now visible, Legolas realised that, unlike in Meduseld, there were no mattresses in the rooms, which seemed to serve only as a means to provide privacy from the main structure. Not much, but to Legolas in that moment it was as perfect a place as he could get in the ruined world.

Sat cross-legged on the stone floor next to the fire, above which now hung his cup with water inside to heat up, Legolas unbuttoned his filthy shirt and shrugged it off his back with a hiss of pain. His wound had at least ceased bleeding, although, not having had time to clean it earlier, his whole side was crusted with dried blood that he now had to clean. The pain was bearable, actually improved now that he was no longer walking about. Still, Legolas was not looking forward to the task of cleaning the gash.

Despite his hesitance in getting started, Legolas ripped apart the spare shirt – no longer suitable for use as its intended purpose – using his dagger, then removed the warmed water from above the flames. Dampening a piece of rag, Legolas cleaned around the wound first, getting rid of all the dried blood and dirt, then he began cleaning the knife wound itself. As predicted, the pain returned even with his light touch, but, closing his eyes, he pressed the cloth to the wound, knowing how important it was to keep such an injury clean and infection-free.

As he removed the filth, the wound began bleeding once more. The Prince of Mirkwood was no healer so perhaps it was to be expected from his inexpert touch. Aside from the most basic survival aid he'd learned during his warrior training in Mirkwood, he knew very little about the art and he certainly didn't have the light, confident touch of a professional healer, so perhaps it was inevitable that he would only make matters worse when forced into action upon himself.

A hesitant knock at the door startled Legolas into looking up. Surely, Kinnale hadn't completely disregarded what he'd said so soon. He'd expected the man to come back to check on him sometime later in the night. But so soon after he had left?

Worried that it might be Aragorn at the door looking for him, and not wanting to worry the young man unnecessarily, Legolas pushed the bloodied strips of torn-up shirt behind his pack to hide the evidence that all was not well and, keeping his hand with a cloth pressed tightly against his side, Legolas pulled his blanket around himself. As he got up, another knock came from the door. By now the impatient Aragorn would have let himself in, Legolas realised.

"Eomer," Legolas exclaimed, surprised to see the Man of Rohan stood hesitantly in the corridor outside his room. He was the very last person Legolas had expected to see this night.

"I hope I'm not disturbing your rest."

"No." The Elf frowned; Eomer sounded different, softer than he had previously when addressing him, and he seemed almost nervous to be here, remaining quiet as Legolas stood waiting to hear what he had come to say. "Did you want something?" the Elf prompted after a while of what he thought to be the most uncomfortable run of silence he'd ever suffered through. Was this, Legolas wondered, how Aragorn felt at the long stretches of quiet Legolas so often allowed to fall between them? If so, he was sorry to ever have put the boy through the discomfort so often in the past.

Clearing his throat, Eomer started, "I just…I wanted to…Can I come in for a moment?"

Legolas stepped aside, pulling the door wide open for the man to enter without question or comment. Eomer took a moment to look somewhat distastefully around the small, naked room, perhaps a little guilty that he no doubt had taken a much better room for himself. Legolas found himself suddenly concerned that the man might spot the blood-caked cloths he'd so poorly hidden but fortunately Eomer wasn't paying any real attention to what he was seeing and didn't even seem to notice.

Shifting with impatience on his feet, Legolas prompted, "Eomer?" hoping it might encourage the man to hurry up and say what he had come to say.

Once more, the Human's gaze snapped back towards Legolas. "Yes. I just came here to…Well, to…to thank you for what you did. That was unbelievably kind of you. And if I can ever repay you in any way then you need only say the word." The gratitude was hurried, spilling from the man as if he had to get the praise out before he thought better of it. Once he had gotten it off his chest he breathed a deep sigh and visibly relaxed.

For a long moment, Legolas simply stared at him, knowing fully well that it unsettled the man. Then, at last, he smiled. "That very nearly killed you to say, didn't it?"

"You know it did." Eomer returned his smile knowingly. "But I meant it, Legolas. You returned my sister to me. That is the greatest kindness I can think of."

It was sincere and Legolas found that he could not mock sincerity. Instead he settled on asking, "How is Eowyn?"

"The healers are still looking to her. Her injuries…they are severe, but the healers believe that in time she will be well again."

"I am pleased to hear it."

Eomer nodded and then took a step back towards the door. "Well, I'll leave you to rest now." He threw open the door eagerly and returned to the corridor. Then after a hasty 'thank you' he closed the door behind him and gladly left the Elf to his privacy, relieved that his duty was done and that he could escape the uncomfortable situation he had put himself in.

Legolas stood for a long while, staring at the door through which the man had just left. Surely he must have imagined the past few minutes because there was no way that the proud Man of Rohan who openly hated Legolas had actually walked into this room and thanked his Elven comrade in all sincerity for his actions in Helm's Deep. Shaking his head in utter amazement, Legolas fleetingly wondered whether he'd actually lost more blood through the gash on his side than he'd initially thought and Eomer coming to him had all been one crazy hallucination.

After coming to the decision that it really didn't matter either way, Legolas returned to sit in front of the fire and finished cleaning up his once more freely bleeding wound. Squinting in the poor light of the fire, Legolas attempted to examine the injury but it was in such an awkward position that he found it frustratingly difficult and stretching in an attempt to see the extent of the damage was only making things worse.

Coming to the conclusion that he would probably be best simply tying a bandage around it to staunch the bleeding, Legolas took out his dagger and tore up a few long strips from what remained of his ruined shirt.

As he was pondering on how best to secure the cloth around the seeping wound, a loud knock came from the door. In his current state, Legolas did not particularly want to be observed by anyone else and getting up again to answer the knock seemed to be increasingly difficult, so he called out, "Come back later."

Despite his request, however, the door was roughly flung open and Aragorn stormed inside. Upon seeing Legolas sat before the fire tending to an ugly looking wound on his side, he slammed the door closed so hard that Legolas could have sworn he felt the ancient walls of the Deep rattle.

"Kinnale said you were injured," the boy accused without preamble.

Legolas looked pointedly down at himself, at his bloodied hands and muttered darkly, "That man has no sense of discretion."

"Well, he obviously knew that you wouldn't tell me yourself so he decided to do the sensible thing. Don't get angry at Kinnale for doing what you should have done in the first place!" shouted Aragorn, not sparing his guardian his anger. Legolas deserved it this time for something so foolish. However, for the next question he reined his annoyance in and asked quietly, "How bad is it?"

"Not bad at all. I can handle this on my own, thank you, Aragorn."

Taking another step forward, Aragorn blanched at catching sight of the stained cloths littering the floor around his Elven guardian. "Is that blood?"

Legolas followed his gaze down to the blood-soaked material and answered shortly but honestly, "Yes." There was no point in lying when the truth was so blatantly obvious, even if the truth was bound to worry Aragorn so much. "But I have it under control."

"Legolas, that is a lot of blood!"

"Yes, it is."

"Why aren't you taking this seriously?" Aragorn yelled suddenly, his heart banging hard in his chest as worry for his mentor flared bright in his mind. "This is serious. Don't you get that?"

Seeing the tears beginning to pool in the young man's eyes, Legolas regretted all the more the concern he was causing his charge. All Aragorn's life, he had tried so hard to protect him from seeing him weak and vulnerable, and yet now through his own pride and stupidity he was knelt helplessly before his young ward doing exactly what he had spent the past seventeen years trying to avoid.

"I know it is," Legolas sighed softly, gingerly pressing another piece of cloth to his wound and hiding a wince as he did so. "I am sorry, Aragorn."

The young man seemed oddly defeated at this as he turned away. "I'll go and find the Rohan healers."

Before he could leave, Legolas called after Aragorn, "I have been already. They were run off their feet. I can take care of this myself."

"Clearly," the man dead-panned, motioning to the multiple bloodied scraps of torn up shirt strewn about the place.

"True, I am not the best healer in the world but I can manage this sufficiently."

Aragorn exhaled sharply in seeming frustration and then moved his eyes, now hard and determined, back to the Elf. "When are you…?" he started to say angrily but then breathed deeply and changed his tone with no small amount of effort. "Do you want me to help you?"

Refusing Aragorn's offer, tempting as it may have been to do so, did not seem the wisest idea right then given his state of mind, so Legolas nodded instead. "I'd appreciate that." With a sharp incline of his head, Aragorn stomped over and knelt at his guardian's side, laying his hand against Legolas' and prising it away from the wound on his side that it covered protectively. "I could use a hand bandaging this up. It's tricky to do alone."

Ignoring this, Aragorn took a second to examine the gash on Legolas' side and then decided, "You need to clean this first."

"I have done that already."

"Not well enough. Do you want it to become infected?" Aragorn snapped impatiently as he wetted another scrap of reasonably clean cloth.

"No, I wouldn't want that." Legolas remained quiet as Aragorn concentrated fully on cleansing the knife wound. It was not difficult to pick up on the young man's mood as he worked. His entire demeanour oozed anger. His body was taut and tensed the entire time and he did not once look up into Legolas' face. It was only once Aragorn had finished cleaning the injury that Legolas broke the silence. "You are annoyed with me."

"What makes you say that?" Aragorn asked tightly, still avoiding looking his guardian in the eye.

"Just a feeling. I should like to know why."

Aragorn scoffed. "You know why."

"No I do not, or I would not have asked." At this, the man shook his head in disbelief. "Aragorn? What have I done to upset you? Is it that I got injured – because in battle that is not always avoidable? Or is it just that I didn't tell you about it?"

Suddenly, Aragorn threw down the length of cloth he'd been neatly rolling up in preparation for bandaging and his anger exploded forth. "Why did you have to go and do something so stupid?"

"Excuse me?" Legolas asked, rocking back a little in surprise.

"A whole army on your side but you have to leave them all behind while you go and play the hero."

"Aragorn, I don't understand what…"

"Any one of the Rangers or the Rohirrim could have accompanied you in rescuing Eomer's sister from that prison but you had to go do it by yourself and get yourself hurt in the process!"

"Eowyn? Is that what you're angry about?" Legolas demanded incredulously.

"Of course it is! Why did you have to go in alone? You must have known the resistance you'd come up against, walking into a nest of creatures of the Shadow!"

"Alright, firstly, I had no idea the Uruks were going to barricade the doors behind me and trap me inside. Secondly, had they discovered that the Men attacking Helm's Deep were of the Rohirrim, they would have murdered Eowyn immediately rather than hand her back to her own people, so I had to move fast before the Orcs realised who exactly was trying to take the Keep."

"You didn't have to go in there alone," Aragorn yelled unrelentingly in the face of Legolas reasoning.

"I had to move quickly. Had I taken another it would have hindered me."

"So now I am a hindrance?"

Silence fell as realisation dawned on Legolas. Then after a moment he said softly, "You're angry that I didn't take you with me."

Lowering shining eyes to the floor, Aragorn answered quietly, "You left me alone out there. In the face of an army of Shadow, you left me."

Legolas let his eyes fall closed for a moment and a sigh left his lips. "Aragorn." When he returned his gaze to the young man, Aragorn had his head bowed low. "I am sorry." He laid a delicate hand against his ward's arm, relieved that Aragorn didn't shake him off as he might have expected him to. "I…I didn't…It was too dangerous for you to follow me. Please understand that."

"Yes, dangerous," Aragorn snapped suddenly, looking up at the Elf, angry again, "and you got hurt."

"Better me than you. That, I could not abide."

"Don't say that," Aragorn pleaded, his voice cracking with emotion. "Don't even think like that." He raised his arm to wipe his wet face with his sleeve and shook his head. "I can't do this without you. I can't lose you. You're all I have."

The words sent a jolt of fear rushing through Legolas and the weight of the burden Arathorn had placed on him pressed down again like it had not done in a long while. This dependency had been the one thing that he had tried so hard to avoid during Aragorn's childhood. He had tried so hard to ensure that he would grow up independent. Aragorn could not become entirely reliant on him. Legolas' mind, his heart, could not handle it. It was the main reason he had sought help from first Lothlorien and then Rivendell and finally with the Rangers of the North, to relieve himself of some of the responsibility. And since meeting Kinnale and the other Rangers, who Aragorn had taken to so well, Legolas had grown more confident that the future king would lean more toward the company of his own kind. Not that Legolas would ever intentionally abandon his charge – he could never break his vow to Arathorn – but the future remained frighteningly uncertain and he wanted to be as sure as he could be that should he ever be unexpectedly removed of his guardianship of the heir to the Gondorian throne then Aragorn would still have backup, people to look after him in times of uncertainty and trouble.

Feeling an almost overwhelming mix of emotions – fear, compassion, guilt, appreciation, affection – Legolas carefully shuffled closer to the young man and enveloped him in a hug. For a moment, Aragorn sat stiffly in the embrace, seemingly trying to remain angry to spite his guardian, but Legolas was unrelenting and let his forced sense of calm wash over the man until he softened and leaned against the Elf. Long arms were wrapped around Legolas and Aragorn's head rested upon his shoulder.

Reaching up to tenderly stroke Aragorn's hair as he cried, Legolas hushed the young man gently. "I am sorry," he whispered truthfully. He closed his eyes again, ashamed at his own thoughtlessness. "I'm sorry to have upset you so."

"Just don't leave me to do this all by myself. Please."

"No matter what happens, Aragorn, you will never be alone in this. Kinnale will…"

"I don't want Kinnale," Aragorn said into Legolas' shoulder. "Kinnale doesn't know…all you do." Legolas' hand ran comfortingly over his back and his tears fell freely. "I need you."

"Aragorn," Legolas sighed sadly. "I swore to both your father and to you that I would always guide and protect you and I have no intention of quitting that now."

The young man chuckled sadly, reaching up to wipe his face. "Good," he laughed. For a moment longer he stayed in his guardian's arms, letting himself bask in the Elf's unshakeable cool confidence. Then he remembered that Legolas was injured and still needed attention so he pulled back, taking a second to once more wipe his face free of tears. Legolas smiled kindly at him, his own hands lifting to gently wipe away his ward's sadness. Clearing his throat so that he was certain his voice would be reasonably steady, Aragorn said, "This still needs bandaging," pointing to the bloodied wound at Legolas' side.

As Aragorn wrapped the lengths of cloth they were using as bandages around Legolas midriff to apply pressure to the injury, Legolas remained quiet, watching the boy work so competently on him, wondering when Aragorn had picked up on such a skill. Certainly, it was nothing that Legolas had taught him. Most likely, he had learnt it in just the past day as he'd helped the other injured Men in Helm's Deep. Apparently, he was a fast learner as he carefully wrapped the bandage around his guardian so that the wound was bound and protected.

"How's that?" Aragorn asked uncertainly, leaning back to admire his handiwork.

"Perfect," Legolas smiled in return, gingerly laying his hand against the bandage.

Beaming at his guardian in the wake of the rare compliment, Aragorn nodded his thanks.

Legolas bent to clean up all the soiled cloth scattered around, saying to Aragorn, "Thank you for your help; you should go on to bed now, it's getting late."

However, the Elf knew that there was no real chance of Aragorn leaving when he winced in pain upon leaning over to pick up the dirty cloths.

Taking the material from Legolas' hand, Aragorn insisted, "No, you have to lie down and rest. That's what the healers would advise."

Legolas smiled tightly through the pain. "Would they now?"

"Come on, I'll give you a hand."

Realising that in his current mood Aragorn would brook no refusal, Legolas yet the young man help him to his feet, swallowing back the groan that threatened to escape his throat. When he lowered himself onto the layer of old blankets that were serving as his bed, Legolas realised just how tired he really was. He could not exactly remember how many days had passed since he'd last slept.

He tried to hide a yawn as Aragorn helped him lay back, although seeing as his eyes were already beginning to grow heavy it was a pretty pointless deception. As he laid down, Aragorn draped a blanket over him.

"Do you need anything else?" the boy asked softly. Legolas merely shook his head, eyes already closed and on the verge of sleep. Suddenly, he felt so terribly weary. The world about him was starting to fade and although he knew that he should not give in to the deep sleep that his body craved, he also knew that the outcome this time was inevitable.

Aragorn was surprised that his guardian drifted off so quickly. However, when he went to clean up the mess before the fire, he realised that Legolas had indeed lost a lot of blood; it was caked over pieces of ripped-up shirt that Legolas had used to clean himself up.

Throwing the scarps into the fire to incinerate, Aragorn glanced over to the pale Elf, wondering if perhaps he should drag a healer up here to look at him. The medics were swamped with injured patients though and it might be difficult getting them away from the mass of patients downstairs. He decided that he would stay with Legolas as he slept and if his condition got any worse he would insist on a healer coming up here to look at him properly.

Set on this course of action, Aragorn sat cross-legged on the floor beside his friend and mentor and waited to see what the daylight would bring.

**To Be Continued…**


	38. Cold Comfort

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks for all your reviews. 300! That's just amazing. So, here's the next chapter for you. Enjoy.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 38 – Cold Comfort**

Aragorn awoke, to his surprise, to find Legolas' voice filling his mind. He blinked rapidly to clear the sleep from his eyes, idly wondering when exactly he had succumbed to his tiredness, and looked over to his side to his where his mentor laid. The flickering orange light cast out by the fire was such that Aragorn could tell immediately that Legolas was sleeping, not awake as he had expected. More alert now, Aragorn shifted up onto his knees and peered over Legolas to find the Elf shifting restlessly beneath his rumpled blanket, his face pale, brow creased, as if in great pain or discomfort.

"Legolas?" Aragorn called, placing his hand on the Elf's arm to gain his attention. However, Legolas did not react to either his voice or his touch. "Legolas, what is wrong?" It was a stupid question, he knew for Legolas did not seem capable of answering, but he was now desperate for his guardian to acknowledge him, to tell him that all was well and that there was no cause for concern. No such reassurance was forthcoming. He laid his palm against Legolas' forehead, glistening with a feverish sweat, to find it burning with fever, so hot that he withdrew his hand immediately. "Oh! Don't worry. I'll get a healer. I'll be right back."

As he had expected, and as Legolas had warned him earlier, dragging a healer away from the mass of patients still laid out around the hall of Helm's Deep proved extremely difficult. So far he had attempted to persuade no less than six different healers to come with him with absolutely no joy from any of them. Each one had brushed him off, telling him that they were far too busy to be pulled away from their patients in the hall no matter what his condition.

"Aragorn?"

The boy looked around at the sound of his name being called and found Eomer getting up from where he had been sat on the floor beside a woman Aragorn presumed was his recently liberated sister. Consumed with concern for his guardian, Aragorn paid the Rohan man no further heed, instead once more trying to snag a passing healer, only to be once again ignored.

"Are you alright?" Eomer asked as he joined him, a frown marring his brow as Aragorn muttered a curse under his breath.

Sighing in frustration, Aragorn ground out, "I need a healer and no one will even stop to…" Even as he said this, another harried healer rushed past him, eyes lowered as if pre-warned about the youth running around the halls looking to drag one of them from their duties.

Eomer snagged Aragorn's arm to prevent him from chasing after one of them and asked in concern, "You need a healer? Why? Are you injured?" The thought that the future king had been hurt during the vicious battle – a notion by no means out of the question given the fights' ferocity and the man's youth and inexperience – surprisingly made Eomer's mind sing with concern.

Aragorn merely frowned at the man's renewed concern for him. Eomer had never been unkind to him but neither had he ever shown any particular regard toward him, so now, when he seemed genuinely concerned about his well-being, Aragorn felt rather baffled.

"No, I am fine," the young man answered quickly in spite of his confusion. "It's Legolas. He is hurt but I can't get a healer to…"

"Hurt? How?"

"In battle," the young man answered bluntly, although surely that had to have been obvious even to the dullest of Men.

"He never said when I spoke with him last night."

"No, well, he wouldn't, would he?" muttered Aragorn darkly.

"Is he badly wounded?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Disregarding the boy's sharp tone of voice, Eomer turned and called loudly to a young-looking healer rushing past them with an armful of dirty blankets. "You there!" The men and women of Rohan may have been able to ignore the strange young Ranger hassling them but they could hardly ignore their esteemed commander and the healer abruptly halted before him, giving the man her full attention. "Go with Aragorn. His guardian is in need of aid. You are to do all you can to help him. Is that understood?"

"Sir," the woman looked around herself at the packed hall, "I cannot possibly leave now; there are patients to be treated."

"Prince Legolas of Mirkwood is one of our most valuable allies in the fighting of this war and he is currently in need of your help. Go attend him and remain for as long as you are needed," Eomer commanded her shortly, not liking being talked back to when giving a direct order.

The woman's critical eyes flicked briefly towards Aragorn, who looked just as uncomfortable at the stern order as she did. She could not disobey Eomer though, so she nodded. "Very well, sir." To Aragorn she then said, "Show me the way."

"Thank you," Aragorn smiled at Eomer in thanks even as he led the healer from the hall.

"Eomer?"

Eowyn's soft voice attracted the man's attention away from the retreating king and back to his recovering sister. He knelt back down at her side where he had been ever since Legolas had strolled up to him and shoved her into his arms and took her bony hand softly with a smile. "All is well," he assured kindly. From beneath her mass of blankets, Eowyn smiled back at him and, bathed in the long-forgotten security of her brother's presence, let her eyes fall closed again.

**OIOI**

"That's it?" Aragorn demanded of the harassed-looking blonde woman ordered here by Eomer, who was now crouched awkwardly at his guardian's side. "That's all you're going to do?"

Tired of the boy's insistent pestering, hovering over her shoulder with criticisms and questions, the woman rose to her feet and turned to him sharply, wiping her wet hands on her ragged skirt. "As I have explained several times now," she ground out through gritted teeth, trying to maintain the patience that she was barely clinging to, "there is nothing more I can do for him."

"But…but you…" He gestured wildly, helplessly, in Legolas' direction. "You just wrapped a length of bandage around him and dumped a wet towel on his forehead._ I_ could have done that! I did do that!"

Squaring up to the young man before her, the healer growled, "Well, then maybe _you_ should consider becoming a healer yourself and you would have no further need to waste my time."

Before Aragorn could find a counter-argument, the healer fled from the room in anger, leaving him once more alone with his guardian. Sighing in resignation, the young man sat down again beside Legolas and took the cloth from his brow to refresh it with the cool water. Whilst the healer had done nothing really to help Legolas – he was no better off now than before the woman had come in with such reluctance, stripped off Aragorn's own bandage and replaced it with another, muttering all the while about time-wasters – Aragorn found that he was at least mildly reassured by her flippant attitude, for surely if she was not so worried as to haul Legolas over to the healing hall immediately, then his condition couldn't be anywhere near as bad as it looked.

As he replaced the damp cloth to Legolas' fevered brow, Aragorn heard the Elf mutter something utterly incoherent and he felt his stomach flip over in sudden fear. Never before had he been in this position, watching his guardian whilst he was so terribly vulnerable. It scared him, he realised.

**OIOI**

Legolas tried hard to open his eyes, he really did. But it seemed to be just too difficult. His eyelids felt like they had been stuck together, unwilling to open to the dark world where pain and loneliness ruled. Feeling that it was probably easier to remain in comforting black oblivion, Legolas let the surroundings, teetering precariously on the edge of his awareness, fade away again. Perhaps he would wake later, when the fire raging through his body had dampened to a more acceptable level.

As his consciousness started to slip from him again, however, a familiar voice drifted over him and he frowned slightly at the sound. Achingly familiar though it was, Legolas found it difficult to accurately place. The words were, too, unfamiliar to him or at least they seemed to be for he had not heard them spoken in an impossibly long time. The lilting speech was not that of the Humans – either Ranger or Rohirrim – nor of Erestor and Elrond in Rivendell and they were most certainly from somewhere in his past. Concentrating hard through the fog of his sluggish mind, Legolas tried to translate their meaning into Westron, which he had used so much over the past years that he now considered it to be his native tongue. He was pretty sure that it was not he who was being spoken to though, for the voice sounded detached, distant.

Whilst he was trying to work out the strangeness of all this new information coming at him, he felt a cold wetness over his hot brow and the unexpected sensation shocked him. He tried to shrink away from the freezing cold being applied to him but he could not go anywhere on the bed he realised he was laid out on. Shivering violently, he cried out for whoever was torturing him in this manner – perhaps, he wondered, it was Mandos himself and he was living his demise – to stop but even to him, his words sounded ridiculously garbled.

From close by this time, somebody hushed him and he relaxed back on the bed, for this voice was reassuringly familiar to him – Aragorn. A smile, weak and shaky, passed over his lips but even this minute action drained him. He wanted to assure the boy that he would be well but he hadn't the strength to speak even a single word.

Once more, he felt himself succumbing to sleep and he dropped gratefully into the darkness that invited him.

For what seemed like a long time, although he couldn't be sure that it wasn't mere seconds, things were so confused, Legolas knew nothing but darkness. When he again became aware of voices around him, he strained his hearing because the strange, foreign voice was back, closer to him this time and he was intrigued by it. Opening his eyes proved more successful upon his second try. Unfortunately, the moment he managed to pry them open, with sheer force of will, he was forced to immediately snap them shut again as brilliant daylight unlike anything he had seen since that fateful day when Sauron took control over all Middle Earth dazzled him.

A moan, soft and frustrated, left his dry throat and he shifted in the bed he was…

Bed? His fuzzy mind recalled Aragorn helping him to lie down on the cold hard floor of the dark room in the heart of Helm's Deep but he couldn't remember there being a bed at any point during his recent travels. In fact, he hadn't slept in a real bed for decades. And yet now, he was warm, his fuzzy and aching head pillowed on a soft, deep cushion of fine, clean fabric and soft feathers, smelling strangely of the freshness he associated with the forests of old.

"Legolas?" The strange voice was calling his name softly now, even closer than before and he stiffened at the sound.

Before he could make sense of any of this though, the intrusive cold he disliked so much was replaced upon his brow, stealing his concentration away from the problem at hand and he whimpered again, shuddering at the sensation. Then, as if by magic, the chill was suddenly replaced by overwhelming warmth, seeping through him and chasing away the biting cold. A sigh escaped him without him realising and although comforting sleep called to him, he remained intrigued enough about where he was and who the mystery presence at his side was to push the sensation to one side.

More cautiously this time, Legolas opened his eyes, blinking several times at the unnatural light.

One thing he was immediately certain of: this was not Helm's Deep. Stone surrounded him but it was not the dark, dank, rough stone of the Deep but rather white and splendid, fairly shining with warm light.

In fact, it occurred to Legolas that this place looked so…very much like home.

Warmth engulfed him at this unexpected realisation and it had little to do with the thick blankets he was swaddled in. Tears sprang unbidden to his eyes and he made no attempt to stop them for they were not of grief but of peace. He wanted to get up, to explore this place that brought him so much peace, to confirm what his foggy mind suspected to be true, but he barely had the strength to move his heavy limbs so didn't think that walking would be a good idea any time soon. When he experimentally, just to be certain that he was indeed bed-bound as he feared, lifted his arm, freeing it from the blankets, red hot pain raced through his body, leaving him panting for breath and drenched in sweat. Such a little movement could render him so ill in this place of old light. It did not make any sense.

Legolas closed his eyes against the dizziness that assailed him and waited for the pain to subside and for the world to cease spinning nauseatingly. As he regained his breath, that now familiar peace washed over him again. Immediately, all the pain and disorientation left him and he relaxed, basking in the warmth. Smiling once more, Legolas allowed himself to relax back into the blissfully soft bed, content for the time being to remain where he was.

There was no doubt in his mind now from where this strange warmth originated.

How desperately Legolas wanted to force his eyes open, to look upon that which he missed the most of all and yet he simply could not make his body respond to his mind's pleading.

A gentle hand was then laid against his forehead, warm and soothing and strong, a touch so very full of love. The contact made him want to weep.

Despite the fire of pain that lapped at the edges of his consciousness and threatened to overwhelm him at the slightest movement, Legolas slowly raised his hand from where it rested limply on top of the fine silken bed sheets, seeking the source of comfort he knew to be so close by. He knew it lingered so close, touching him even, and yet he found that no matter how hard he tried he could not touch it back. His hand met only with empty space.

With no success in finding the insubstantial presence that waited with him, and tiring rapidly, Legolas let his hand fall back down, palm resting over his heart as if to ease the disappointment that prickled the tortured organ. So close. He was so close and yet he could not reach.

But he was so terribly tired. He desperately wanted to remain alert, to be absolutely sure that the blissful feeling would not leave him alone again. And yet, before he knew it, his senses were slipping away from him and icy darkness descended once more.

**OIOI**

Aragorn rubbed at his eyes tiredly then, as he stifled another yawn, he looked back to where his guardian laid quietly. For the first time in three long days, Legolas was settled. The Elf still seemed fevered, his cheeks flushed, sweat sliding down his temples to dampen the bunched up jackets stolen from any soldier Aragorn had seen passing by the room, serving as his pillow. But he was no longer tossing and turning violently beneath the blankets as he had been previously, which was a relief to Aragorn.

After sitting up with his guardian during his illness, the man too was exhausted but he would not leave, not whilst Legolas remained so unwell.

Shifting onto his knees, Aragorn bent to remove the damp cloth from Legolas' forehead and refreshed it in the bowl of cold water laid next to him for just such a purpose. Legolas stirred at the cold sensation, tossing his head to the side, lips parting in a soft, low groan. Holding his breath in anticipation, Aragorn waited for the Elf to return to sleep, relieved that he eventually did, remaining undisturbed it seemed by the action.

"How is he?"

Aragorn looked around to find Kinnale stood in the centre of the room. Despite his sudden appearance, Aragorn was not startled. The Ranger had hardly been a stranger these past few days and Aragorn was always grateful for his confident presence amidst all the uncertainty.

"A little better, I think. He is sleeping at last."

"That's good." Kinnale came closer and crouched at Aragorn's side. "He has some more colour in his face now; not quite so pale."

"Yes."

As if their voices had gotten through the delirium to Legolas in his fevered state, the Elf shifted and muttered the only full word he had spoken over the last three days. "Ada."

Kinnale sighed heavily at this, tilting his head as if trying to work out what it meant. "Still no idea what he's talking about?"

"Not a clue."

Looking to the Elf with sympathetic eyes, the commander asked, "Aren't you worried that he's saying, I don't know, 'help' or 'pain' or something in his own language?"

"Yes, I am. Greatly worried."

"Ada," Legolas repeated maddeningly unhelpfully in a whisper before settling once more with a deep sigh.

"I really wish I could speak the language of the Elves," Kinnale said, echoing Aragorn's very thoughts in that moment.

"Legolas never thought it necessary to teach me. I don't know why."

"Could have proved useful right about now."

Honestly, Aragorn didn't know why Legolas had never bothered to teach him his native language nor why he had never thought to ask the Elf to do so. He remembered way back when he had first met Legolas, as he was trying to drag his father away from the vicious Orcs who the then stranger was distracting, the Elf had spoken words to him that he didn't understand and he'd stood staring up at his heroic saviour in awe and confusion. Then Legolas had corrected himself, repeating the command in confident Westron, the common language of Men. At that time, Aragorn had remembered being intrigued by the beautiful-sounding words and yet he had not pressed Legolas to teach him.

Only one other time had Legolas spoken his native language before his ward and that had been to Erestor in Rivendell. Even that, Legolas had stopped quickly, demanding that Erestor speak in the Common Tongue too. Aragorn had never questioned that decision either. He wondered now, listening to words he could not understand, whether it ever frustrated Legolas that he never had the opportunity to speak in his own language or whether the exiled Elf preferred it that way.

"You want me to stay with him for a while?" Kinnale asked softly, breaking into Aragorn's thoughts.

"No, I should stay."

Kinnale got to his feet with a groan and pulled Aragorn up as well. "You know fully well that Legolas would be furious if he thought you were running yourself into the ground for him."

Looking down at his mentor, Aragorn argued, "He never left my side the last time I was injured."

"True. But then, you are far more sensible than your mulish guardian," the Ranger chuckled, leading the boy to the door. "Go get some sleep in your own room. I'll watch over Legolas, make sure he has all he needs in your absence." Aragorn opened his mouth in order to protest again but Kinnale spoke over him. "And I'll come and get you if his condition worsens or if he wakes." Going to close the door on the younger man, Kinnale added kindly, "He'll be fine in the meantime, child."

With an uncertain nod of agreement from the young Aragorn, Kinnale closed the door on him, leaving him no choice but to return to his room next door to rest.

Sighing, the Ranger returned to where Legolas lay oblivious to all going on around him and looked down at the ailing Elf in concern. Still and quiet, Legolas seemed so very small now. Standing so tall and proud normally, it was odd to see the Elf laid out so vulnerable. How frightening this must have been for Aragorn. The Ranger got the distinct impression that this was not a position Legolas often let his ward see him in. In fact, Kinnale imagined that Legolas would be absolutely mortified that Aragorn, or anyone else for that matter, had seen him this way. Being a proud man himself, Kinnale could sympathise with that.

As he watched the slow rise and fall of Legolas' thin chest beneath the blanket, Legolas murmured the same word again, 'Ada', and shifted position as if in discomfort.

Realising that he'd been so busy staring at the Elf that he had neglected his duty, Kinnale got down on his knees and changed the cloth on Legolas' brow for a fresh one. At the gesture, Legolas released a half- sigh, half-whimper and turned his face away in disgust from the intruder upon his peace.

"I'm sorry," Kinnale said softly to the disturbed Elf, even though he didn't think Legolas could hear him.

Of course, Legolas didn't answer but he did turn his face back to the Ranger, eyes closed tight, and mumbled something else unintelligible. From under the blankets, Legolas' hand reached out weakly towards Kinnale, although the man couldn't be sure that Legolas knew that it was the commander he was reaching out for. Indeed, in his fevered state it was unlikely he even knew anyone was with him. Yet, Kinnale caught his hand, squeezing gently and Legolas gripped him weakly back.

A faint smile came to Legolas' lips then. Contented, Kinnale thought. Perhaps, the man mused as he gently held Legolas' frail hand in his own, 'Ada' was not a bad word after all, because now Legolas breathed it in relief.

"I hope that is a good dream you're having, Legolas."

**OIOI**

Everything felt so heavy. Arms, head, legs. His whole body felt as though it were pinned to the hard wooden floor on which he was laid by a solid mass. He felt cold but was no longer shivering for which he was grateful as the unpleasant sensation had followed him even into sleep and left him feeling weak.

For an indeterminate amount of time, Legolas felt as though he had been in another place, removed from reality, unsure even of what reality was, and it had left him feeling utterly confused as he surfaced from what had been the first true, deep sleep he had enjoyed in decades.

As he slowly surfaced from the fog, Legolas realised he wasn't even certain of where exactly he was. His last memory had been of walking the still battlefield with Kinnale and Kalub, searching for Human survivors in the wake of the chaos at Helm's Deep.

Rohan. Yes, that was right, he was in Rohan. But where exactly in the Deep he was still unsure.

He remembered a warm bed, sunlight, dazzling and yet at the same time tremendously comforting, and that enigmatic, beautifully peaceful presence he had felt so intensely loved by. And yet he also remembered the dark, dank halls and rooms of the Deep just as vividly. How could things become so very jumbled in his mind?

At least the pain that had plagued his dreams was lessened here. A dull throbbing still pulsed through his weakened body but it was by no means unbearable. The most irritating discomfort at present resided in his back. The floor on which he was laid was horribly hard and it was making his back ache fiercely to lie flat on it. Perhaps if he could shift over onto his side then he would be more comfortable. Finding the energy to make such a move proved more difficult than he could have anticipated though.

**OIOI**

"Legolas? Can you hear me?" Aragorn asked eagerly as his guardian stirred again. After four days of Legolas remaining completely unresponsive to all stimulus around him, the man was excited to at last see his guardian stirring. "Legolas?"

Aragorn watched as the Elf shifted again, this time leaning to his side with a soft moan of what sounded like frustration. He frowned in concern. Was Legolas in pain?

Laying his hand against Legolas' arm, Aragorn pointlessly asked him, "What is wrong?"

Aragorn bit his lip in concern as another slow release of breath escaped Legolas. Thankfully, he was given a small clue about what his guardian was trying to do as, after another minute, Legolas once again leaned to his side, this time trying to shuffle into a different position.

Aragorn could have kicked himself for being so stupid as not to realise something so simple. Holding Legolas' arm as he struggled weakly to move to a more comfortable position, Aragorn called over his shoulder to Eomer and Kinnale, who were stood talking quietly in the doorway. Both looked over suddenly.

"What?" Kinnale demanded urgently, hurrying over to Aragorn's side, not bothering to disguise his alarm, thinking that Legolas' condition had suddenly worsened. "What's wrong?"

"Can you help me?"

Even though he was still in the dark over what was happening, Kinnale did as asked, getting to his knees beside the younger man.

"He is uncomfortable. He wants to lay on his side," Aragorn explained as he folded the blanket down a little way so he could slip his arm beneath Legolas' body in order to gently move him. "Just help me move him. I don't want to risk moving him on my own and hurting him more."

Carefully, the pair turned the Elf over onto his side, moving the blankets to ensure that Legolas was as comfortable as he could possibly be. Aragorn pulled the blankets back up to cover his guardian and stroked long blonde hair back from Legolas' face.

"Is that better?" Aragorn asked as his guardian settled again, more relaxed now it seemed. Legolas did not reply to him but the serene look that had settled onto his features was all the answer Aragorn really needed. The young man smiled, relieved that at least he could do this one small thing to ease his mentor's suffering.

"I'm not surprised he wanted to move; these floors are horribly hard," Eomer commented, kicking at the stone floor with the toe of his boot.

"Well, the Orcs burned everything of use, including all the beds and mattresses, so there's not much we can do," Kinnale pointed out. Upon discovering that Legolas had been seriously injured, Kinnale had been quick to send his Rangers on a hunt to find any useful supplies to aid in the Elf's recuperation but all they had found were some blankets stuffed away in an old, locked chest, hidden from the Orcs' purge of Helm's Deep's resources. So they had collected the blankets spared from the healers in one of the halls and made a layer soft enough for the unwell Elf to lay on. Even so, after four days spent on the thin layer of blankets it was no wonder that Legolas' back was aching.

"Hopefully, he'll wake soon, then maybe he'll be able to move down to the healing hall." As he spoke, Aragorn's eyes did not leave his guardian's face, passive now in sleep.

"Yes," agreed Kinnale as he got up from the floor. "We're going to check on things downstairs. Do you need anything else?" Aragorn shook his head so the Ranger and Eomer headed from the room with the reassurance, "We'll be back soon."

Once the door had closed behind the two older men, Aragorn bent his head. A muffled sob escaped his throat, followed swiftly by another. He pulled his knees up to his chin and hugged them, hiding his face in his knees. Alone now, he cried freely, confident that no one could see him.

He knew that Legolas was going to be alright now. Five different healers had assured him that once the fever broke he would recover and all would be well. It was not that which Aragorn feared. But the possibilities of what _could_ have happened terrified him. If he lost Legolas then he would be all alone in this quest and he knew that he would not survive on his own. True, the Rangers and the Rohirrim were on his side, there for support but even his friends amongst these Men were not like Legolas; they didn't know all of his darkest fears and secrets and Aragorn didn't want them to know.

Legolas was his guardian, his tutor, his friend and the closest thing to a father he'd known for years. Without him, he would be utterly lost. And the fear inside him at the prospect physically hurt to acknowledge.

As he sat alone, crying and miserable, Aragorn did not notice blue eyes watching him blearily. It was only when pitifully weak fingers wrapped around his thin wrist that Aragorn's head snapped up.

"Legolas?" he asked, taking the Elf's cold, frail hand and holding it carefully. "Are you awake?"

Although Legolas' eyes had drifted closed by now, at the sound of Aragorn's voice, he smiled what he hoped looked to be a reassuring smile. In actual fact, it barely registered on deathly pale lips but it was all Aragorn needed and he laughed out loud in sheer relief.

"Legolas; thank heavens. You scared me half to death! Don't ever do that to me again." In response, Legolas could only smile weakly again. "The healers say you are going to be just fine. And even Eomer has been in here enquiring after you, that's how worried everyone's been."

This time, Legolas did not react at all and when Aragorn loosened his overly tight grip on his guardian's hand, he realised that the fingers he was gripping were completely lax. Legolas had fallen back into sleep. Disappointed though he may have been that his guardian had not spoken even a single word to him, Aragorn was also immensely relieved that at least for a short time, Legolas had been awake and aware. Finally his recovery seemed within sight.

**To Be Continued…**


	39. Recapturing The Light

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 39 – Recapturing The Light**

"You need to try to eat this," Aragorn persisted for the third time, holding out the wooden bowl and spoon he had been handed just moments before by a Man of Rohan who'd been rather annoyed that he'd been reduced to serving the young Ranger and his irritable guardian.

Legolas let his head fall back to rest against the soft pile of jackets propped up against the wall acting as a pillow and wearily objected, "I'm really not hungry."

"Maybe not but you still have to eat to regain your strength. Legolas, come on, you haven't eaten anything for days."

The Elf sighed, his eyes falling closed for a beat. He was so very tired. What Aragorn said made sense logically but he just didn't feel like he had enough energy to do much of anything. He just wanted to sleep, or in lieu of that he would settle for simply lying there immobile until the bad feeling passed over him and he felt more like himself again.

Aragorn seemed to have other ideas for the duration of his recovery though. Ever since Legolas had finally woken and croakily requested a sip of water, the man had done nothing but fuss over him. Feeling drained as he did, Legolas really just wanted to be left alone in spite of all of Aragorn's good intentions. And eating was certainly not on his mind. Nausea still fluttered faintly in the pit of his stomach, increased by the mere prospect of consuming the dark broth the Rohan cooks had prepared.

"Legolas, would you please stop being stubborn and take a bite of this."

The Elf smiled weakly as Aragorn held out some of the thick broth on a spoon for him. Then he gently pushed the man's hand back down, ignoring the frustrated sigh his ward released at the action. In a whisper, Legolas confessed, "I'm not sure I could keep anything down right now. Maybe later."

Giving in at last, Aragorn laid the bowl down on the floor. He couldn't force Legolas into doing something he obviously really didn't want to do. "Alright."

"Is he being a nuisance again?" Kinnale grinned knowingly, coming over to the pair.

"I'm only repaying the favour," Aragorn smiled in return. "Remember how he fussed over me the last time I was injured? Never left my side. Made sure I did all the things I hated to aid my recovery."

"Ah, now he does have a valid point there, Legolas."

The Elf nodded shortly, regretting his previous overprotectiveness towards his young ward now. "I suppose this is all my own fault then."

"Seems like," Kinnale chuckled as he crouched down at Legolas' side. Turning slightly more serious, the Ranger asked him, "How do you feel?"

"Much better, thank you."

"Glad to hear it. We've missed your expertise overseeing the clean-up." Legolas smiled again, his eyes blinking more lethargically now. "But the important thing is that you get yourself well again," the man added quickly as though suspecting that the Elf was planning to leap up from his bed and begin hauling supplies around the Deep. He patted Legolas on the shoulder gently, wary of causing discomfort.

"I'll try my very best to get back to it as quickly as possible," Legolas breathed weakly in response.

"Right." Kinnale seemed relieved that his slip had been covered, for the way Aragorn was glaring at him made him uneasy. "Well, there's lots to do still around the Keep. Come on, Aragorn, let's leave your weary guardian to sleep in peace for a while."

"But I was going to stay for…" Aragorn started but was silenced when Kinnale clapped him hard on the back.

"Yes, come on. Time to go."

"Go, Aragorn. You have been cooped up in here for days. Go out and get some fresh air," Legolas encouraged with a pathetic attempt at a smile.

Unsure, Aragorn looked to Kinnale and the Ranger rolled his eyes at the boy. "I'll get Janor to pop by in a few minutes, how's that?"

Legolas smiled again as he shifted to get more comfortable. This small look of reassurance from his injured guardian was enough to convince Aragorn – even though he really was not given any other choice – and he nodded.

"Alright, fine." Aragorn too got to his feet, taking with him the untouched food – waste could not be abided when supplies were woefully scarce. "You'll shout if you need anything at all?"

"Yes."

"Promise?"

Another faint smile crossed Legolas' pale lips and he answered, "Yes, Aragorn. I promise," without bothering to open his eyes this time.

"Sleep well," Kinnale called behind him almost cheerfully as he herded Aragorn out the door before he could change his mind and turn back to his vigil.

Alone now, Legolas let awareness slide away from him in the silence. Aside from still being desperately weary, there was also a part of him that believed – or rather, hoped – that if he could just get back to that state of pure rest then he could regain that wonderfully peaceful feeling he had experienced once before. He so badly wanted to look again upon that cosy room he had dreamt of, to feel that ethereal presence close by that had brought him so much peace for such a brief amount of time. Even though he wasn't honestly expecting to experience such a wonderful dream again, he clung to the hope as he fell asleep and slipped away from the cold, cruel world of Arda.

**OIOI**

Unfortunately, by the time Legolas was dragged back from his deep sleep, he only recalled of the hours only darkness; no further dreams of ethereal, enigmatic figures or fine and familiar rooms.

Blinking the remnants of sleep from his eyes, Legolas turned his head just enough to blearily search around the room for whatever noise had disturbed him from his rest. Perhaps not surprisingly given the young man's clinginess, the source of the disturbance was in fact Aragorn moving around none too quietly. Heavy Human footsteps on the flagstones and sensitive Elven hearing did not bode well for sleep.

Legolas shifted up on his makeshift bed, having slipped down from the half-propped-up position he had fallen asleep in, then cleared his throat to announce his waking to his ward.

"You're up!" Aragorn exclaimed when he realised that his guardian was indeed awake and watching him.

"How long did I sleep?" the Elf asked around a wide yawn.

"Quite a while." The man smiled broadly, as though Legolas' waking was more important than whatever inane task he had been distracting himself, and he dutifully abandoned whatever he had been doing so noisily and came to kneel in his now familiar position on the floor beside his guardian. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes." Thankfully, Legolas didn't feel that his admittedly still rather weak voice betrayed his private disappointment at not being allowed the kind of peace in his dreams that he remembered and subsequently longed for.

"Do you want to try eating something now?"

Although Legolas sighed at the proposition of food, making Aragorn think that he might object again, the Elf nevertheless nodded his consent, however reluctant it may have been.

With a relieved smile at the answer he had been hoping for, the man leapt to his feet without another word and dashed from the room to get some food for his guardian almost as if the task were a matter of life and dead. Meanwhile, Legolas rested, gingerly laying his hand across his stomach, which still churned ominously at the very thought of ingesting food but he didn't want to disappoint his worried young ward any further. Perhaps Aragorn was correct in his assumption that he would feel better after eating something. If he got back even a tiny amount of the energy he had lost through this illness then it would all be worth it. He'd never felt so completely drained before; even the small movements he had been attempting since coming out of his fever-induced sleep were a monumental chore. This lack of strength was by far more incapacitating than the pain caused by his healing wound. In fact, he thought that he would have preferred the pain to the weakness – such was his nature. His lips quirked upwards into a small smile when he imagined how Aragorn would respond to that if ever he heard it. The man would be outraged. But then, Aragorn had never understood him – not really, no matter how hard he had tried to throughout his childhood.

"I just brought you some porridge oats to start with," Aragorn started as he walked back into the room, carrying a shallow wooden bowl filled with steaming hot food. "I thought perhaps a thick broth would be too much too soon, you know, considering..."

"This is fine," Legolas assured softly, taking the bowl Aragorn handed to him.

Eating was, as Legolas had suspected it would be from the very moment Aragorn suggested it, a chore. And yet he ate every last scrap of what was given to him, aware of Aragorn's keen eyes watching his every move.

When finished, he handed Aragorn back the half-empty bowl and told his ward that he was going to sleep for a while longer and closed his eyes while Aragorn left him to rest. Tired and miserable, the Elf laid quietly waiting for sleep to come to him again, once again with the nagging voice in the back of his head that longed for the peaceful scene he had recently enjoyed.

**OIOI**

"Legolas?" A gentle hand shook Legolas' shoulder just hard enough to wake him. The Elf tried to shuffle away from the annoying disturbance but it was in vain for there was nowhere to go and the hand stubbornly remained on his arm. "Wake up," a distant voice persisted. "Legolas?"

With what seemed like a greater effort than ever before, Legolas eventually managed to open his eyes to find Kinnale leaning over him, concern shining through on his earnest face. Blinking lethargically, Legolas realised that it must now have been night time as only candles lit the small room rather than the dull grey light of the day that had bleached the stone before. "What?" he mumbled grumpily, raising one thin hand to his face, wondering why on earth someone would be shaking him awake in the middle of the night when any civilised person should be tucked up in bed. Unless of course… "Is Aragorn alright?" he asked suddenly, heart pounding hard in his chest at the possibility that something had happened to his ward as he had slept.

"Yes, Aragorn is fine," Kinnale replied quietly, recognising and immediately squashing the Elf's panic. Laying his hand once more on Legolas' shoulder, Kinnale added, "You were talking in your sleep again. You seemed…disturbed."

"Oh." Legolas looked down at his hand then with a frown as he saw wetness glistening on his fingers, transferred, it seemed, from his face where it had rested for a moment in his panic. Tears. He had been crying in his sleep. Self-consciously turning his face away from the man at his side, Legolas hastily wiped at the remaining tracks on his face with the sleeve of his shirt. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment at being caught in such a vulnerable state by the Ranger. Never once had he cried before Aragorn and there was no one in this world anymore that he considered himself closer to. If he would not allow Aragorn to see him thusly than Kinnale could not be allowed to either. It infuriated him somewhat that he still could not simply get up and stride away as he was want.

"You were dreaming?" Kinnale asked, seemingly oblivious to the Elf's discomfort at his presence.

"Yes, I suppose so," answered Legolas, blinking his eyes to clear them of the remaining tears then looking back to Kinnale. The man was pouring water from a canteen into a metal cup when Legolas asked hesitantly, "Was I…? Did I say anything…?"

"Don't worry; anything you said I couldn't have understood anyway." Kinnale knew what Legolas was getting at and was quick to put him at ease. And Legolas certainly did look relieved at the assurance. "Here, water," he said as he handed the cup to the Elf.

"Thank you." Legolas drained the cup slowly, grateful for the cool albeit stale water on his dry throat.

"Aragorn has gone to bed, in case you were wondering where he was." Truthfully, Kinnale was quite surprised that so far Legolas seemed not to have noticed the absence of his ward in the room. And, in response to the pre-emptive reassurance, Legolas merely nodded, clearly distracted. "We tired him out earlier with a full and perhaps unnecessarily thorough tour of the Deep."

"Good," was all the Elf came back with.

"Do you need anything else?"

"No thank you." Legolas laid the now empty cup on the floor beside his bed.

"Sure? Aragorn told me to encourage you to eat should you wake."

"I'm fine."

Looking down at the Elf, Kinnale asked after a long silence during which the Elf stared unblinkingly down at the blanket covering his lap, "Are you alright, Legolas?"

"Yes, of course."

"You seem a little distracted."

"No," Legolas smiled thinly, glancing up at the Ranger as if that small action would prove his resolve.

"Would you like me to fetch Aragorn for you?"

"No. Why would I?"

"Because you do not seem yourself, my friend."

Legolas shook his head softly and smiled as he dismissively replied, "My side is hurting a little, that's all."

"Oh. Well, then it is a healer you need."

"I don't need to see a healer," the Elf assured before Kinnale could dash from the room to summon a healer from where they presumably still treated patients in one of the main halls. The man did not look entirely convinced, even though he did stop in his mission to hear the protest out of respect. "Really, Kinnale. They'll just come in here, prod at me for a while then leave again once they have me feeling worse than before their intervention."

The man sighed hard in frustration. He did not like to think that his friend was feeling bad but he also knew that Legolas was most likely correct in his description of the healer's procedure. Whenever they visited, they simply changed the bandage wrapped around the Elf's middle and instructed him to rest; little help in the matter of Legolas' comfort. Not that either Kinnale or Legolas could really say anything too strong against their methods. It was lucky that they at least possessed a few herbs to fight the infection that raged through Legolas' body. Herbs that lessened the pain were non-existent.

"Alright," Kinnale finally conceded with another heavy sigh of displeasure. It was not like there was much else he could really do. Legolas was as comfortable on his pile of bedding as it was possible for him to be and his fussing would do nothing but irritate the already irritable Elf further than ever. "Alright, you just go back to sleep then," he said softly, slightly concerned by the Elf's increased pallor and his apparent detachment from the world and people around him.

Even as his eyes grew heavy again, Legolas quipped, "You are starting to sound like Aragorn."

Kinnale laughed openly at this, patting Legolas softly on the shoulder in a good-natured gesture. "Good to know."

Taking the blanket that had slid down the Elf's thin body so that it only covered his legs, Kinnale gently pulled it back up, preparing to tuck it around Legolas to keep him warm.

At the gesture, Legolas raised his hand wearily to stop the man. "You don't have to do that."

"Just be still and stop complaining," chastised the Ranger before he carefully wrapped the blanket around his friend to keep him warm. "It's killing you, isn't it? Being taken care of in this manner."

Legolas answered simply and truthfully through gritted teeth. "Yes."

"I thought so," Kinnale chuckled.

"You can't say that you wouldn't be the same in my position."

"True enough." Legolas' eyes were already closed by now, the Elf on the verge of sleep. "Rest well, my friend," Kinnale whispered, adjusting the blanket again before he settled in the chair in front of the fire for the rest of the night. Just before dawn, someone would come to relieve him of his watch. Taking turns in looking over the ailing Legolas had been Aragorn's suggestion after Kinnale had told him that he could not remain constantly in the room with the Elf. The Ranger had known that Aragorn would sit up all night, denying himself sleep in order to keep a watchful eye on his guardian. So they had organised shifts. So far though, Legolas had hardly been awake. He'd slept through all Janor's earlier watch, through most of Aragorn's shift and now through Kinnale's time as well. Still, the man thought as he settled down, perhaps that was for the best.

**OIOI**

His head was spinning dizzyingly and he had to cling to the wall simply to remain upright as he made his way slowly across the room, his legs constantly shaking and threatening to give way beneath him, as if in punishment for such a foolish act as leaving the comfort and safety of his bed whilst still in recovery. With the world shifting dangerously beneath his bare feet and his legs feeling increasingly and disconcertingly weak, Legolas took it slowly. Already his breathing was getting laboured from even the minimal exertion it took to put one foot in front of another in order to cross the small room of Helm's Deep.

"What do you think you are you doing?" an annoyed voice demanded to know from the doorway and Legolas immediately recognised it to be the stern tones of his ward and he sighed at getting caught in the act of such blatant disobedience. "You shouldn't be walking around, Legolas!." The voice trilled in reprimand.

Secretly pleased when Aragorn finally hurried across the room to support him, Legolas breathlessly reasoned, "I know I shouldn't."

Slipping his arm through Legolas' arm to steady him and take some of his weight off his trembling legs, Aragorn asked, "Where are you going then?"

"Bathroom."

"You should have asked someone to help you," the man admonished severely, speaking to his centuries-old mentor as if he was but a child.

"Do you see anyone around?" Legolas braced one hand against the wall to further steady himself as he took another faltering step forward.

Giving in, Aragorn nevertheless rolled his eyes at the stubbornness of his guardian. "Fine. It's just down the hall; I'll help you."

The corridor, deserted as it was, was negotiated with relative ease much to Legolas' relief.

"Alright," Legolas breathed when they reached the door to the bathroom, "wait out here."

"I'm not sure it's wise to leave you alone."

"Don't start with me, Aragorn; I'm fine."

"In case you haven't noticed you can barely stand on your own."

Legolas couldn't help but chuckle at this endlessly frustrating role reversal, remembering how he had insisted on escorting him in a very similar situation not so long ago. He also recalled that Aragorn had won that particular argument.

As if he too had just remembered that as well and thought better of his protestations now, Aragorn sighed in defeat then slowly removed his arm from around Legolas.

"I'll wait out here for you."

By the time Legolas had taken care of his body's demands, he was more than ready to return to his comfortable bed. He allowed Aragorn to support him back to his own room and, once there, sat down with a heavy breath of relief. Such a short walk should not have left him exhausted and gasping for breath. He was an Elf, blessed, supposedly, with the ability to heal faster than any Man and yet now it seemed to be taking him an age to recover. He felt as if he had been trapped within those four small walls for months, although he knew realistically that it hadn't been more than a week since Kinnale had helped him to the room in lieu of finding a healer in the chaos of the after battle.

"The healers reckon that the wound you sustained got infected," Aragorn explained pointlessly as Legolas settled back on his nest of blankets. "They say you'll need to rest for some time before you're fully recovered.

"Yes," Legolas agreed, leaning back gratefully.

"But you are going to be fine."

"I know."

"Just so long as you rest and do as you're told."

Legolas smiled at this and asked, "Are you trying to make a point here, Aragorn?"

Aragorn quirked a frown in his direction and quipped, "Yes, as a matter of fact." He softened the tone with a smile. "I'm only saying that if you want to get better then you have to put that stubborn streak that runs right through your heart out of your mind and let people help you."

"I am doing so already."

"Begrudgingly," Aragorn noted with a glare.

"The manner in which I do it must surely be irrelevant to my recovery. The point is that I _am_ doing it. Following orders."

"Good. But you have to continue. I need you well."

Legolas chuckled softly at the command, hesitant though it was.

"What's so funny?" the young man demanded when he saw the smirk on his mentor's face.

Laughing shortly, Legolas replied, "It's just that you sounded very much like a commander just then."

"Oh." Aragorn's cheeks flared red in embarrassment, unsure as to whether Legolas meant this as a compliment or not.

Sensing his confusion, Legolas smiled again, still not opening his eyes, which had fallen shut almost as soon as he'd laid down. "I meant it as a good thing, Aragorn. Irritating but…good progress."

"Does that mean that you're going to listen to me?"

"As best I can."

"Good enough for me."

By this time though, Legolas had fallen back to sleep. But for the first time, Aragorn felt truly trusted by his guardian. With a proud smile, the boy replaced the blanket over Legolas and moved away.

**To Be Continued…**

**I know, I know, it's short and it's shameless Legolas angst. I just couldn't help myself – getting inside Legolas' head whilst he's lying there helpless… Next chapter will be back on track though. I promise.**


	40. Betrayal

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks so much for all your lovely reviews. I look forward to reading some more (hint, hint). Anyway, first I had better give you the chapter. So here it is. Chapter 40. Enjoy folks.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 40 – Betrayal **

Aragorn's head was spinning. For the past three long hours, he had been sat perched uncomfortably on the edge a cracked, upturned wooden crate listening to the Rohan Men arguing with the Rangers over all manner of issues. In fact, anything they could think of to disagree on was aired openly here in a large square-shaped room, bare of everything but storage boxes and boarded up windows that let the draughts in.

Actually, it had started off with such a promising and rather light-hearted discussion about their plans for their next move. However, as usual, Kinnale and Eomer had been on opposing sides and had not been afraid to make that fact know to all. It had all gone downhill from there.

The Rohan man had argued that it would be beneficial to the cause to rebuild Helm's Deep, repair the damage done by the brutal filth of Mordor and set up a permanent home right there. On the other hand, Kinnale wanted to get moving again as soon as possible, leaving behind only the injured until they were recovered enough to cross the lands to Bree, where eventually the Rangers of the North would return to their own families.

With two entirely different ideas, the room still remained divided despite fervent arguments for both sides. The Rangers staunchly stuck with Kinnale whilst the Rohirrim naturally took Eomer's side. So they had come to a stalemate and the whole meeting had degenerated into pointless bickering about where was best and who was best, followed by shouting out the opposite's faults, which was where they were now.

And, three hours in, there looked to be no end in sight.

**OIOI**

Searching through the hall that had been filled almost impossibly full with patients still recovering from injury in the wake of the battle of Helm's Deep took more time than Legolas had first anticipated when he'd considered venturing from the comfort of his relatively comfortable bed. And yet he stubbornly persisted. Healers roamed about the hall with far less urgency than the last time the Elf had come stumbling into this place held up by Kinnale, but no one paid him any heed as he searched, he was just another injured soldier searching for what had been lost.

In the end after a good while of checking through the rows of men, he found the patient he had been looking for right at the far side of the hall, respectfully concealed from the other occupants by a flimsy wood and fabric panelled screen, which, although battered and broken in places, at least afforded some small amount of privacy not enjoyed by the other wounded.

The small woman was laid on a mattress and swathed in blankets, sound asleep. Her pale face was just about visible from under the mass of covers. She looked cleaner than when last he had seen her, having obviously been looked after well since her rescue from Helm's Deep's filthy dungeons, and she seemed to be resting far more peacefully than he would have expected so soon after the end of her ordeal.

Legolas supposed that there was no point in disturbing Eowyn whilst she slept and would have left to come back another day had the walk from his room to the healing hall not so thoroughly exhausted him. As it was, he felt that he needed to sit down before he fell gracelessly to the floor and hurt himself further. The wound on his side was throbbing with pain by now, so he eased himself with great care to sit on the floor. Clearly someone – Eomer, most likely – came to sit at Eowyn's side with regularity as a cushion had been positioned next to her bed and now Legolas sat gratefully down on it, not bothering to conceal the wince of pain that flashed over his face given there was no one around to see it.

It took a moment for the dizziness to clear and for his breathing and heart rate to steady but once they had he opened his eyes and inhaled a careful breath. That breath caught momentarily in his throat, however, when he looked to Eowyn and saw sea-green eyes watching him with curiosity.

"You're awake!" Legolas exclaimed softly in surprise. Naturally, she made no other response than to blink wide eyes up at him. "Forgive me if I disturbed your rest."

"No." Her voice was still hoarse from lack of use over the years – or perhaps too much use in screaming he idly wondered - but at least she sounded calmer than when he had liberated her from Orkish custody. "You came to visit me." A smile tugged at the corners of her pale, cracked lips and her eyes softened from frightened to obviously pleased.

"Of course I did."

She moved her arm awkwardly so that it was outside the shield of blankets and took his hand, holding it as tight as her ailing strength would allow. "You were gone so long."

As he squeezed her frail hand back gently in reassurance, wondering at the protruding shapes of fine bones beneath papery skin, Legolas answered, "Your brother has been with you. I didn't like to disrupt the time you two had together."

Eowyn smiled softly again at this, her eyes lighting up at the mention of her loyal brother. "He is a wonderful man."

"Yes." So far, Legolas could not honestly say that he had been particularly friendly with Eomer but he could hardly contradict the commander's sister on this point when she had so recently been reunited with him. Besides, family stuck together and she would be loyal to her kin over him no matter what. And rightly so. "So, tell me, Eowyn – how are you feeling now?"

"Better." Another fleeting smile passed over her thin, cracked lips and she added, "Although I couldn't have felt much worse when you found me."

"And Eomer tells me that you will be perfectly fine after some rest."

"I hope so."

Legolas could tell that even this relatively short conversation had tired the woman as she tried to conceal a yawn and he knew that he should probably leave her alone to rest. The only trouble was that the walk from his room to this hall had also tired him and he wasn't sure if getting up was worth the supreme effort he knew it would take.

For a moment they stayed in rather awkward silence; Legolas willing his weakened body to move and Eowyn trying not to drift off the sleep as she wanted to. After a while, however, the woman lost her internal battle before Legolas won his and she fell back to sleep, much to Legolas' relief. He rubbed his pounding forehead with his hand, wishing now that he had never ventured out of his own bed, but with Aragorn and the attentive Rangers absent from his side he'd felt he had to take the opportunity to go check on how Eowyn was seeing as no one would tell him of her condition.

Legolas sat for longer than he had intended watching the young woman sleep. When he had finally gathered up enough strength, the Elf climbed wearily to his feet, biting his lip against the pain that flared suddenly in his side.

Thoroughly worn out, Legolas had envisaged going straight back to his room to sleep off this ill-advised venture. It didn't work out that way though. During his slow progress back, he got distracted by the sound of multiple loud voices echoing along the corridor. Sharp Elvish hearing easily picked out both Kinnale's and Eomer's voices amongst the yelling and he felt compelled to investigate, for this was undoubtedly the meeting Aragorn had left his side to attend several hours earlier. Protective instincts for the boy's well-being kicked in and, mingled with curiosity, that gave him the strength to walk the distance to the meeting room and he slipped inside to stand unnoticed in the darkness of a corner. Whatever the purpose of the meeting had initially been, it was clear that it had descended into anarchy at some point. Even Kinnale and Eomer had joined in the arguing, losing all sense of diplomacy in the process.

Legolas' eyes scanned the room, searching for Aragorn in the melee. He found the young man sat at the other side of the hall on a crate, head in his hands, as if he'd given up on his attempts to restore order and resigned himself to the fact that this would continue until both sides ran out of steam. It was a sad sight for Legolas to witness; seeing his ward so helpless.

One day Legolas hoped for Aragorn to be king, to rule over the united Men on Middle Earth. This was not the kind of leadership he had imagined for the heir to Gondor. Still, he supposed that this was the first time Aragorn had been involved in such a meeting so perhaps it was understandable that he was overwhelmed and flailing somewhat.

For a while, Legolas listened to the Men shouting at each other, in the midst of whatever argument had been ignited, unable to really pick out the core disagreement amidst the insults. However, soon he took pity on the obviously disheartened Aragorn and stepped away from his spot hidden by the wall and approached the boy.

Aragorn looked up in surprise at the familiarly gentle touch upon his slumped shoulder. "Legolas!" he exclaimed at finding his recovering guardian suddenly in the room with him, the last place he had expected Legolas to be right then.

Legolas did not reply but instead looked with steely eyes at the other Men in the hall. As he'd expected, at Aragorn's exclamation the shouting had died down and the Men were all looking towards the two of them in bemusement. With his hand remaining securely on the young king's shoulder, Legolas scanned the hall with an openly critical gaze. Even now, with all eyes on them, Legolas could feel Aragorn shrinking under the unwanted attention from his fellows. A quick glance down at the boy told Legolas that he was not willing to step up and address the waiting Men, so he did the future king's job instead.

"Fighting amongst ourselves will get us nowhere," the Elf warned them in a clear voice full of authority that Aragorn could only aspire to.

Eomer glanced about him then almost petulantly shot back, "We were not fighting."

Ignoring the scoff that came from Aragorn at his side, Legolas shook his head. "It certainly sounded like fighting to me."

"It was more of a…a discussion, I would say."

Kinnale rolled his eyes at the man but kept his silence when Legolas' withering gaze turned to him.

"Either way, it is unnecessary."

"How so?" Eomer demanded, folding his arms across his chest in a show of almost childish defiance.

For a change, Kinnale actually agreed with his fellow commander. "There are things that need serious discussion, Legolas, and what to do next is one such topic."

"No discussion is needed because that has already been decided."

Now Kinnale and Eomer exchanged curious glances with one another and then the Ranger asked of him almost uncertainly, "It has?"

Aragorn also looked up questioningly at his guardian but Legolas squeezed his shoulder a little, a reminder for him to hold his silence for the time being.

"Yes," replied the Elf with perfect calm.

Silence followed then, which Legolas allowed to remain unbroken. It was a good reprieve after all the yelling. At last the two men were united in something, albeit confusion. The hush was shattered after a full minute by a slightly irritated Kinnale asking, "What has been decided then?"

"We are leaving Helm's Deep at the earliest possible opportunity."

Stunned silence filled the room. This time, Eomer beat his Ranger counterpart to breaking it. "Leaving?" he bellowed incredulously at the Elf. His sentiment was backed up by murmurs of discontent from his fellow Rohirrim and a few of the Rangers as well. "You cannot be serious!"

"Perfectly serious."

The man barked out a shout of laughter then stressed, "We have only just regained the Deep! After years under Enemy control, the Men of Rohan have claimed back what is rightfully ours - a marvellous victory over the Shadow, I might add – and you want to just hand it back to Saruman's forces?"

Legolas was unmoved by Eomer's angry tone and calmly nodded as he responded with a simple, "Yes."

Eomer swore under his breath and turned his back to Legolas, his hands tightly fisted by his sides as if he struggled to keep them from knocking some sense into the infuriatingly thick-headed Elf.

His voice more reasonable, Kinnale spoke then, "Legolas, I am not sure this is the wisest course of action."

"It is the only course of action available to us now."

Holding up his hand to stop the increasingly volatile Eomer from exploding insults at the Elf, Kinnale asked, "How so?" Before Legolas could offer an explanation, however, the Ranger continued to rationalise, "Helm's Deep, despite its somewhat dilapidated state, is still an extraordinarily valuable asset to the forces of Light." He ignored Eomer bristling at his side at the slight against the fortress of the Rohirrim and continued to look calmly at Legolas. "It might be foolish to abandon such a great asset so readily."

Unable to contain himself any longer, Eomer put in angrily, "And need I remind you that forty-one Rohirrim and Rangers died taking this fortress back?"

"No," Legolas sighed, for the first time lowering his eyes sadly to the floor, "you need not remind me of the lives lost, Eomer, I feel them acutely."

Aragorn stood up at this, realising how weary Legolas suddenly sounded. Concerned at Legolas' obvious continuing weakness during his recovery, the young man took the Elf's arm and murmured, "Here, sit down," and moved Legolas to sit on the upturned crate he'd just vacated.

"Thank you," Legolas said softly as he sat. For a moment he was silent and the room followed his example, waiting for him to resume his reasoning. Only Eomer impatiently rapped his fingers on the hilt of his sword. "I know very well the sacrifices both sides have made for the ownership of Helm's Deep. And I appreciate your position, Eomer, but to stay here any longer than necessary would be ill-advised.

"Why?" the Rohan man blurted out incredulously before he could stop himself.

"Because our presence here will not go unnoticed in the Black Lands for long."

"You mean Sauron?" Aragorn asked thickly from Legolas' side, the fear now beginning to taint his voice as the reality of what they had accomplished here settled in upon being spoken out loud. So much had happened after the battle – Legolas being injured, people celebrating the taking of the Deep – that he hadn't had the time to consider the repercussions of their actions in Rohan.

"Such a bold move as attacking a fortress of the Shadow is bound to be noticed."

Pacing suddenly before the Elf, Eomer accused, "You insisted we not chase after those creatures that escaped the Keep! No matter what, they are now going to alert the Shadow of our presence."

"Yes."

"So, all this is your fault!"

"Yes," Legolas accepted easily, much to the surprise of all the gathered Men.

"What?" Eomer snapped, only momentarily broken from his stride at Legolas forthright confession of his guilt.

"It would not have mattered anyway. There is no way a united army of Men could have taken a stronghold of Shadow and gone entirely unnoticed by the Dark Lord."

"But…"

"Sauron will never allow your race to retain ownership of Helm's Deep. Staying here we will be easy targets for him and he will not hold back in his attack. With the threat of the rising of Men, Sauron will spare no force to rid himself of the uprising that has the potential to usurp him."

"Wait just a minute," Kinnale interrupted Legolas then. "You knew this would happen all along, didn't you?" Legolas looked to the ground again, guilt flitting momentarily across his face. "You knew that re-taking Helm's Deep would alert Mordor of our existence. You knew it the very moment someone mentioned the fortress back in Edoras."

"So now we are known to the Dark Lord!" Eomer yelled loudly in rage. "You've made us all targets!"

"Legolas, I don't understand. When we travelled together, just you two and the Rangers, you were so set on secrecy surrounding all out movements. Many times we hid from the Shadow spies. Why announce to the Shadow an alliance between the Rangers and Rohan before we can gather more forces to us in order to retake Gondor and restore the ancient bloodline?" Kinnale asked in confusion.

"How much longer do you think we could have travelled the lands undetected?"

"Longer had you not announced our presence here," Eomer interjected angrily.

"Had we continued on towards Gondor, Sauron's spies would have spotted us and engaged and chances are they would not have hesitated in slaughtering us all."

"Optimistic, isn't he?" Janor put in sarcastically from behind his commander.

"However, by taking the Deep, we have a major victory under our belt. This was no small feat. Sauron will recognise this. It is a show of strength."

"Aren't we also showing him our weaknesses?" Kinnale pointed out intelligently.

Legolas had to concede to this by nodding. "Yes, but we can no longer be perceived as being passive."

Still furious with the Elf, Eomer yelled loudly, "Passiveness has served us well so far. Don't you understand that we only want to be left alone now? We want to survive. And before you stepped in, we had a reasonable chance of doing just that!"

"Hey," Aragorn finally stepped in, "that's not fair."

"No? We were getting on just fine until you two came along."

"Really? Hiding in your Golden Hall is getting on fine, is it?" Aragorn snapped, not liking Eomer's tone when speaking to his guardian.

"You have no right…!"

Seeing the naturally hot-headed Eomer beginning his threatening advance towards them – even though he didn't believe for a second that the Rohan man would actually ever hurt any of them – Legolas stood up painfully, ready to intercept him if need be.

"If you insist on continuing to take this conversation down this particular route then I think we should end it," the Elf said with forced calm.

"Maybe we should, because it is bordering on lunacy at the moment," Kinnale spat from behind the broad Rohan man.

Realising now that talking was not going to get them anywhere and that his already depleted strength was rapidly draining from his shattered body, Legolas shook his head sadly, cast a quick glance in Aragorn's direction, then said, "To stay here more than a month would be tantamount to suicide. It is up to you two commanders to decide what is best for your respective forces but Aragorn and I will be leaving at the end of the week to put as much distance between us and this fortress as we possibly can. I strongly urge that you follow our example. Your combined forces would be of great help to us in our future quest."

"Excellent," Eomer muttered darkly under his breath, turning away from the Elf in exasperation. He could not understand how he could go from respecting Legolas above all others to finding him so thoroughly infuriating in just a matter of days.

Ignoring the Men, Legolas looked to Aragorn and said softly, "Walk with me back to my room." He did not particularly want Aragorn left alone in a roomful of Men angry at the comments of his close guardian; that would hardly be fair.

"Of course." The boy gratefully followed Legolas from the room, encouraged by the fleeting smile of encouragement and apology Janor shot him as they passed him by. Perhaps he was not entirely out of favour with the Men. They still had their allies despite the disagreements between the three divided sides.

As they slowly made their way through the halls, Legolas remained quiet, obviously lost deep in thought about what had just transpired. At his side, Aragorn was also thinking through everything that had just been said in his presence. The Men had not been happy with Legolas' plan for the next step nor how he had manipulated them into taking Helm's Deep from the Uruk-hai forces. In truth, Aragorn wasn't sure how he felt about it either. He'd never known Legolas to be quite so underhanded, he'd not been expecting that, especially when dealing with their allies. Also he couldn't help but think that from the look in Legolas' eyes when he had come towards him amidst the arguing that the Elf, the guardian he so wanted to make proud, was disappointed in him.

A quick glance towards the Elf told him nothing but Legolas was obviously in pain. He had paled even further during the short walk, his features set in a slight grimace.

Worried about his guardian, Aragorn discreetly took his arm. At the motion Legolas glanced his way but made no protest or comment, which was as good a confirmation as any that his assumption had been correct.

By the time they reached the room in which Legolas was staying, the Elf was grateful to be able to sink down onto his bed. The throbbing in his side had worsened and now his head also pounded at the exertion he'd placed his still recovering body under.

"Legolas?" Aragorn asked as soon as he'd closed the door on anyone who may have been listening.

"Yes?"

The Elf sounded weary and Aragorn hesitated a brief moment about confrontation whilst Legolas was not at his best before coming to the decision to press on regardless. "Did you mean what you said in there just now?"

"Which part exactly?"

So much Aragorn wanted to ask about Legolas' previous assertions but he settled upon addressing the most pressing issue first. "The part where you said we were leaving within a couple of days."

"Ah, that part," Legolas smiled in understanding, his eyes blinking lethargically.

"In case you haven't noticed, there are many wounded amongst the Rangers and Rohirrim; how do you intend to get them safely out of the Deep?"

"Those who are able to walk will pose no problem as we will take the easiest path slowly."

"And those who cannot?" Aragorn asked impatiently, shifting on his feet.

"You forget, child, that the Rohirrim possess horses."

Aragorn sighed heavily then and pointed out, "Not all of them will be able to travel, Legolas, even on the backs of horses and I am not a child."

"Then the able Men will have to bear them on litters." Legolas looked up at Aragorn then and smiled "Do not trouble yourself. Survival strengthens even the weakest Men to extraordinary deeds."

Still not happy with what was being proposed or Legolas' vague appreciation of their situation, Aragorn snapped, "Well, you make it sound so easy."

"You're upset with me?"

"Yes!"

"Why?" Legolas asked, clueless, a frown creasing his forehead.

Pacing across the room Aragorn let out at exasperated bark of a laugh. "Because you lied to everyone Legolas! You led these Men into danger on purpose when you knew fully the consequences. How can you justify the deaths of innocents simply to prove a point?"

"A point that sorely needed making," Legolas replied sternly.

"By sending good Men to their deaths?"

"By whatever means necessary. And let us not forget, Aragorn, that those Men who gave their lives did so voluntarily. They were soldiers fighting for a cause they believed in."

"Oh, so it's alright that you deceived them all, then. They were just army fodder."

Affronted by the accusation, Legolas shouted, "Of course their deaths were not welcomed. Every life is precious. I wish no one had to die in our pursuit of freedom," Legolas leaned forward carefully, wary of his injuries, voice still raised, "but that is the price of war and you are going to have to get used to it because there is going to be much more of it to come in the future and you are someday going to have to lead these Men on your own."

"Well, if it means doing what you did to them, then maybe I don't want to lead them!"

Getting to his feet painfully, Legolas warned him, "You might not have a choice! I might not always be here to make the difficult decisions for you!"

"Maybe that's for the best."

Silence followed for a long minute after this, thick and tense it swirled around them. At heart, both knew that the words had been spoken in the heat of the moment and meant little in reality and would be regretted greatly once calm had been restored. Such was the pattern of their relationship. Aragorn would later regret them once he had calmed down and would apologise and all would be forgiven. And yet, Aragorn's scathing words never failed to hurt Legolas. What power that boy held over him – at times it terrified him.

Knowing that a hot-headed Aragorn would be impossible to have a rational conversation with, Legolas ran his fingers through his hair and said wearily, "We should discuss this tomorrow."

"Why not now? Because you don't like what you're hearing? " Aragorn accused.

"No, Aragorn, because I am tired."

Surprisingly, Aragorn's anger was not immediately diminished by this as he thought it should have been and he snapped. "That's because instead of listening to all those who have been telling you to rest you go wandering around the halls! It's your own fault."

"Aragorn," Legolas warned gently, recognising that Aragorn was standing on the edge of saying something that he would majorly regret later, something that would be hard to forgive so easily. "Shouting at me is helping me, is it?"

"Maybe not but it's making me feel a whole lot better," Aragorn yelled back.

Legolas smiled slightly at this. "Well, that is what's important."

"What does that mean?"

"I think you should take a walk."

"Excuse me?"

"Go for a walk, cool off, then maybe when you have calmed down we can talk about this properly."

Even as he walked to the door, flinging it open, Aragorn shouted back at his guardian, "There is nothing more to discuss. Clearly you have made all the decisions for us both already. It's not like I have any input."

Slamming the door hard behind him, Aragorn left Legolas by himself again. His movements weary and increasingly pained, Legolas sat back down on the nest of blankets that consisted of his bed. Sitting mulling over what had occurred with the Men and Aragorn would do little good and yet Legolas could not help himself.

It was times like this, when he was so uncertain as to what course of action to take, that he felt the most lonely and his heart longed for the support of his betters. Going in search of the Rangers after departing from Imladris had in fact been an incredibly selfish act, for Aragorn still looked to him for the answers to their growing array of problems and he felt, even then, that he was consistently coming up short. Perhaps, hopefully, he had been so intent on searching out the Rangers of the North with the wish that their leader would take up his position as decision-maker and leader.

A seasoned commander he may have been, with more experience than all the Rangers put together but this was not the comparatively simple task of commanding the king's army in Mirkwood. Even then Legolas had looked to the higher officer – King Thranduil himself – to decide upon the strategy to keep the Woodland realm both safe and powerful.

Now, Legolas would have longed for his father's presence to take some of the pressure off.

As he laid back onto his mound of blankets serving as a bed, Legolas wondered whether perhaps a detour back to Rivendell might be prudent. Granted, Elrond was all but useless with his broken heart and mind but Erestor still had his wits about him. The Major Domo had not always been quite so passive, Legolas knew; he too was a great warrior, only one who despised the profession and had had very little cause to practice it as he hid away in Rivendell's empty shell in recent years. Although Legolas doubted that Erestor could be persuaded to leave Elrond behind and he was certain that even if the pitiable Elven lord could be pried away from his dead home then he would be little more than a hindrance on the road to Gondor and beyond. Legolas didn't think his fragile soul could take any more disappointment from those he venerated anyway and surely the only thing Elrond could not do was disappoint.

No, Legolas decided with a careful sigh, Imladris was not an option. He was, as ever, very much on his own.

**To Be Continued…**


	41. The Pain Of Regret

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks so much for your wonderful reviews. I loved reading them. Here's a brand new chapter for you and I hope you enjoy it too.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 41 – The Pain of Regret**

Petulance was an emotional state that Aragorn had rather impressively mastered and refinedduring his life. Legolas mused upon this infuriating achievement he trudged behind Aragorn, who seemed intent on letting Legolas and everyone else around him know of his unwavering disapproval over Legolas' actions and words over the past week. Not that the Men were all that bothered by the coldness displayed towards the Elf. In fact the majority of them looked and acted very much as Aragorn did. They were angry at having to leave the recently regained fortress of Helm's Deep and most of that anger seemed to be directed towards Legolas rather than upon their respective commanders as was perhaps more reasonable. Over the past few hours he had been on the receiving end of some truly bitter looks and some poorly veiled words of disgust.

From the Men, Legolas could handle the censure but from Aragorn it still stung.

It had been three days since Legolas had told the squabbling commanders of the Rohirrim and Rangers that they were to leave Helm's Deep less than a week after capturing it from the legions of Shadow and things had not thawed much between Elf and Men in that time.

Despite their hesitancy at this plan though, both Kinnale and Eomer had agreed to leave their hard-gained conquest behind, pack up their wounded onto the sparse number of horses left standing and start on the long road to Gondor. They may have still been furious with the Elf for manipulating them as he had done but they could not deny that to stay at Helm's Deep and wait for the armies of Sauron to crush them for their boldness in starting a battle would not be the wisest of plans.

The journey so far had been thoroughly miserable for the Elf, however, and Legolas did not anticipate it getting any better in the near future. For a start, he was exhausted already even though they had only been walking for a few hours into the afternoon, and his side was in screaming pain from the exertion of his constant movement. The night before, Aragorn had snapped at him for even suggesting that he could easily walk on his own after being injured so badly in the battle, but of course Legolas had shouted him down once again. There was no way he was going to ride of horseback or be carried on a litter along with the rest of the injured Men. His pride would not allow for such a thing and besides he didn't need any more resentment.

Unfortunately, this only seemed to fuel Aragorn's anger towards him.

So, Legolas spent the beginning of the trip in almost complete isolation. The road to Gondor was not a short one and Legolas feared that the whole journey would be passed in very much the same discomforting way.

"Legolas?"

The Elf startled at his name being called. Evening was drawing in already and no one had spoken a word to him the whole day. "Ciaran, is everything well?"

"Yes, I was just relaying my report to my father. I thought perhaps you might like to hear it too."

Legolas smiled softly in the face of the boy's kindness. "Thank you, but I don't think I need to hear it as well. So long as everything is going well."

"It is. None of the wounded have worsened so far and progress is good."

"That is good to hear."

"Alright. Well, I should get back to my father." Legolas nodded his leave even though he really didn't think it was needed. The young man grinned at him then went to hurry forward to the commanders at the front of the party. In the past few hours, Legolas had fallen far behind his starting position beside Kinnale and Eomer. "Oh," Ciaran turned back as an afterthought, "and I thought you'd like to know that Kinnale plans to halt for the night soon."

Legolas smiled at him before he was swallowed up by the crowd but he could not disguise the look of sheer relief that also passed over his features. He had rather thought that the still miffed commanders would walk for a couple of hours then stop for the night – as Kinnale was want to do with his Rangers – but so far this day they had only halted once for lunch.

"Ciaran?" Aragorn called as the boy raced past him.

Skidding to an abrupt halt at the sound of his name, the commander's son turned to Aragorn and waited for the man to reach him. "Yes?"

"Did I see you speaking with Legolas just now?"

"Uh-huh," the young man nodded enthusiastically.

Aragorn glanced behind him, even though he could not see Legolas at all anymore through the mass of people between them. "Is he alright? Did he seem well?"

"I suppose. I only spoke to him briefly." Seeing the disappointment upon Aragorn's face at this, Ciaran offered, "Do you want me to go back and…?"

"No. No need. Thank you."

He smiled at his friend and the young man hurried off back to his father. Aragorn may have been furious at the Elf but he still remained concerned about the health of his guardian. He remembered vividly when they had first stumbled upon the Rohirrim, after fighting with the fearsome Wargs and how he had been so exhausted but unwilling to stand up to the intimidating Commander Eomer but Legolas had immediately braved Eomer's wrath and stepped in for his ward, covering for any insecurities on his part. Not once had Legolas abandoned him. Even when Aragorn had impetuously run away in anger, Legolas had come after him, saved him from the dangers all around in a world he didn't really understand at the time. Time after time, Legolas had proved himself to be strong and true.

And yet Aragorn could not forgive him one single transgression. How was that fair?

Just as the young man was about to go to Kinnale and ask him to stop for the night for the benefit of the injured, the commander called for them to halt anyway.

Torn between plonking himself sullenly on the ground and going off in search of his guardian, Aragorn dropped his pack to the ground and pulled out his blanket. He had been planning to lie down for a while, mull over his decisions for a time in the hope that an answer might spontaneously come to him. After less than ten minutes though his resolve broke and he shot up from his spot and made his way through the crowds.

It was an awful lot harder than he'd imagined to find Legolas. With Men milling around in relief at the pause in walking, soldiers moving about organising everyone and healers running about everywhere looking out for their patients, the camp was utter chaos. Aragorn wondered briefly whether Legolas had sought out the help of the healers by himself but just as quickly dismissed the thought. Never would the solitary Elf voluntarily seek out aid even if he was hurting.

Darkness had fallen before Aragorn at long last – and quite by accident – stumbled upon his guardian. One of the young Rohirrim had finally pointed Legolas out to him. The Elf was, much to Aragorn's surprise, sound asleep beneath his blanket, only the top of his golden head and booted feet visible from beneath the scrap of threadbare fabric.

Legolas had positioned himself as close to the edge of their large campsite as possible, purposefully separating himself from the other Men. Aragorn felt a pang of regret. How lonely Legolas must feel, so isolated and surrounded by people who made no effort to disguise their dislike of him.

Deciding that Legolas was probably thoroughly exhausted from the journey, he didn't wake the Elf from his slumber. In spite of wanting to sit and watch his guardian sleep, Aragorn made his way back towards where the Rangers were clustered together, still stubbornly separating themselves from the Men of Rohan despite all they had been through together.

"Cheer up, boy," Eomer greeted him, slapping Aragorn non-too-gently on the back.

Aragorn shot the man a brief smile but went straight to where his blanket was still laid out, untouched, and sat down heavily. Already the men had started up fires, over which they were now boiling water and cooking the small amount of meat caught on the road but Aragorn paid none of them any heed. Instead, he was pulling the contents of his heavy bag out; sorting through it to ensure everything was in order; just as Legolas had always taught him to do every night to make sure everything was where it ought to be just in case it was needed quickly in an emergency. An old habit, but one Aragorn found comfort in during times of unrest.

"Don't you want something to eat?" Ciaran asked as he passed by, pausing before Aragorn with a small bowl of weak, watery stew.

"No," Aragorn answered simply without even bothering to look up from his task.

"Aragorn," Kinnale called over to him loudly enough for all the other Rangers nearby to hear, "you need to eat something. Come get some food."

With an irritated sigh, the younger man stood up to accept the bowl into which Kinnale had ladled some of the weak broth. Nodding his thanks, Aragorn then returned to sit on his blanket to pick at his food disinterestedly. He couldn't help his mind drifting back to his guardian. Surely Legolas would not eat anything this night. But the Elf needed to keep his strength up – he was still recovering, after all. Worry niggled at Aragorn's mind and he found that what little appetite he had had now completely vanished. However, knowing that Kinnale was surreptitiously watching him and that to waste food was practically a crime given it was increasingly hard to come by, he finished off his meagre meal without complaint.

The night proved to be a disturbed one for Aragorn, just as he had predicted it would be. His mind would not stop whirring. Underneath his blanket he squeezed his eyes tightly shut and willed sleep to take him.

**OIOI**

Returning to Edoras, the Men of Rohan received a wonderful welcome from those left behind who had been too young, old or ailing to ride to Helm's Deep with the Rangers and warriors. What little food could be spared by the town was laid out in a splendid banquet and their strong homemade liquor was made readily available to all. Reunions were both joyful and sad as relatives and friends were told of the dead and reunited with their loved ones.

That evening was full of laughter, song and dance as the men and women of Rohan rejoiced at the well-fought victory at Helm's Deep. Aragorn could just as well have foregone the celebrations in favour of a quiet night of rest but he ended up being dragged along to the splendid party in the Golden Hall. A drink was thrust into his hand and he was encouraged by all to enjoy the rare festivities.

It proved more difficult than expected to enjoy all Edoras had to offer, even with the aid of the Rangers' potent alcohol to dull his senses.

Legolas had not showed up that evening. Not too surprising really. Aragorn doubted very much that his ostracised guardian had even received an invitation. He was probably completely unaware of the celebration going on.

Whilst Eomer and Kinnale, as commanders of the two victoriously returning forces of Men, were lavished with praise and attention by the adoring public, Aragorn sank gratefully into the background with his drink – doing that which Legolas would never have allowed: wallowing in his misery for a time. After a while of sipping at the throat-scorching alcohol, the world around him began to blur pleasantly and he picked up another cup of the liquid creating such a new and wonderful feeling within him from the main table. He downed the contents just seconds before a young woman, one of the Rohan warriors who he knew had fought at Helm's Deep, pulled him to his feet to dance to the music being played by a band on primitive but effective instruments.

Dancing – yet another skill Legolas had failed to teach him. Still, he was dizzy and detached enough that the way in which he moved his feet didn't seem to matter too much at all. And his partner didn't seem to mind either. She clung tightly to him as they danced frantically and without form, negotiating their way around the other couples on the floor, occasionally crashing into these unfortunate revellers, who, Aragorn realised, were dancing just as erratically as them.

Another drink was pressed into his hand and he downed it on the move despite the fact that it made his stomach churn and his head spin even more. The wooden cup clattered to the floor but he took no notice, instead laying his hands on the woman's slim waist and pulling her flush against himself. She pressed her body closer to his and nuzzled his neck with wonderfully soft lips. Meanwhile, his hands, growing ever bolder in the haze of frivolity, roamed freely over her toned body, taking in sensations that he had never experienced or even imagined before. With a high laugh, the woman slung her arms over Aragorn's shoulders and unexpectedly pressed a crushing kiss to his lips. Aragorn was so surprised by this foreign action that he just stood frozen to the spot as she continued to move her lips against his.

Far from being put off by his inactivity and inexperience, the young woman laughed brightly against him when she pulled back and then dragged the stunned young man back into the dance, deciding that his flushed red cheeks were simply adorable and an indication that he was enjoying himself. Dazed now, both by drink and the mix of unknown emotions, Aragorn followed mindlessly along.

The remainder of the night of festivities passed by in a blur. Aragorn by no means went unnoticed anymore. Women and men gathered around the young man rumoured to be their future king, encouraging him to enjoy the drink and entertainment on offer in the wake of the now infamous battle. And Aragorn did indulge. Never would Legolas have allowed such freedom; he would have insisted that the man be in bed early and not partake in the mindless frivolities of the party. But surely this was better, being surrounded by joyful people who actually liked him made him feel like he belonged and was not simply some freak, some tool to be used against the might of the Shadow.

At some point in the evening, although when exactly would remain forever unclear to the now very merry Aragorn, he found himself sprawled out before the roaring fire on a luxuriously soft fur with the young woman he'd been dancing with earlier next to him and another cup of potent alcohol in his hand. The world was deliciously blurry now and he felt so wonderfully mellow and warm.

"What are you doing?" he chuckled – or maybe he slurred it – as the young blonde woman trailed her hand down his front and slowly, seductively, began unbuttoning his ragged shirt.

"Just relax, Your Majesty," she purred at him, leaning up, kissing the side of his neck.

His eyes fell closed in pleasure at the warm sensation spreading through him. However, when he felt her deft fingers undoing the clasp of his belt, he looked down in surprise and fumbled to grab her wrist to halt her progress, clumsily spilling his drink on the fur and himself in his haste.

"Hey!" the young man exclaimed.

"Don't." The blonde woman smiled at him slyly and shook off his weak grasp. "It's alright."

"I…"

"Aragorn."

The young man and his eager partner immediately looked up at the sound of Kinnale's stern voice in front of them. The commander towered above them, his expression severe even though from the drink in his hands and the slight flush of his cheeks it was obvious that he had been enjoying this night as well.

Aragorn followed Kinnale's gaze and quickly snatched away the woman's hand, which still rested tellingly on his half-open trousers. He blushed crimson under his commander's scrutiny. This was worse even than getting caught by Legolas, he decided.

"Young lady, I am not your commanding officer but I nevertheless suggest that you get yourself off to bed now."

"Yes sir." She got up immediately and hurried away, moving carefully around Kinnale and not daring to glance back at the blushing, dishevelled Aragorn.

Meanwhile, Aragorn scrambled gracelessly to his feet, hastily doing up his trousers, buckling his belt and buttoning up his shirt. "Kinnale, I…"

When he lost his balance and staggered slightly, Kinnale reached out his hand to steady the obviously intoxicated boy. "I think you have had quite enough…entertainment for tonight. Perhaps you should retire to bed as well. Your _own_ bed."

Aragorn nodded almost eagerly in agreement, not quite understanding Kinnale's stressing 'your _own_ bed'. Where else would he sleep this night? As he tried to keep his focus on the commander stood before him, Aragorn desperately wished that the room was cease its spinning and that the people around him would keep still so he could regain his equilibrium.

"Can you find your own way back to your room?"

"Uh-huh. Yes, I think so."

"Alright. Go on then. No detours."

Nodding again, Aragorn slipped carefully past him and went to leave the hall.

The walk back to his room proved a perilous one. Not only did he feel dreadfully sick but the hallways swam horribly before his eyes and blinking did little but make him lose his balance and stumble against the stone walls. Eventually, he gave up trying to walk unaided and trailed his hand along the wall to steady himself as he blearily navigated the spinning corridors.

Mercifully, the room assigned to him was not too far away. Crashing through the door, Aragorn tried to steady himself by clinging onto the jamb for a moment until the dark room had steadied itself enough for him to stand and until he was capable of stumbling over to the mattress. Collapsing face-down onto the bedding, he closed his eyes, disappointed to find that the spinning refused to abate and that his stomach was close to rebelling. He longed for blissfully deep sleep to take him. That feeling that had been so pleasant earlier at the party had now turned bitterly against him and he wished for it to leave him now.

Aragorn turned his face to the side, the cool, rough fabric of the pillow providing his pounding head with some relief. Going to sleep was harder than he'd hoped but eventually he drifted off with the hope that in the morning it would all be better. He comforted himself with the reasoning that he couldn't possibly feel worse than he did already.

**OIOI**

"Come on, wake up now."

"Go away," Aragorn slurred into his pillow, hoping the command would force whoever was waking him with an unsociably loud voice and rough hand shaking his shoulder to go away and leave him to his sleep.

Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect. The hand shook him harder and the man, Kinnale obviously, called in a purposefully louder voice, closer to his ear, "Time to get up. You need to eat something."

Aragorn groaned at the mere suggestion of having food in his churning stomach. "Leave me alone."

"Trust me, you'll feel better after a good, hearty breakfast." Kinnale chuckled, this time taking Aragorn's arm and giving it a gentle but persuasive tug to persuade him up. "Come on now."

Sighing upon the realisation that Kinnale was not going to leave him be, Aragorn dragged himself up so he was propped up, squinting at the older man who had the most annoyingly smug smile on his face.

"Had a bit too much to drink last night, huh?"

"Shut up," moaned Aragorn, rubbing at his sore eyes.

"Alright," laughed Kinnale back, not offended by the grouchy tone. He had heard the like several times already this morning from suffering revellers. "Get changed into something more pleasant-smelling and come down to the dining room."

"Fine. I'll be there in a minute."

In actual fact, Aragorn had no intention of joining them for breakfast. His soft mattress and pillow beckoned him back towards them. Unfortunately, Kinnale wasn't going to allow that to happen. Upon seeing Aragorn going to move back on the bed, the commander dashed forwards and snatched up both Aragorn's pillows and blankets, bearing them away despite Aragorn's protests.

"No more sleep. Breakfast. Now."

"Alright," Aragorn snapped irritably, getting up, making sure Kinnale clearly saw his irritation.

"You can have your bedding back later."

Under his breath, Aragorn muttered something unintelligible as he bent to get clean clothes from his bag. The older man simply ignored what he supposed to be crude cursing, refusing to engage the young man any further.

Twenty minutes later, Aragorn was dressed and making his way to the dining room. Changing clothes had done little to ease the fuzziness in his mind, the pounding in his skull or the heaviness of his limbs and he doubted very much that eating was going to ease the churning of his stomach. In fact the very thought of consuming food made him feel ill.

Nevertheless, he was expected to attend breakfast with the other Men therefore he would do so.

The meal proved to be close to torture for Aragorn, just as he had expected it would be. Everyone wanted to speak to him after the ice had been broken last night but he really didn't feel like doing anything other than staring down at his plate and wishing the whole thing would end quickly so that he could drag himself back to his bed. Time, however, seemed to move excruciatingly slowly as he willed it to fly. By the time the Rangers and Men of Rohan filed out of the room, Aragorn was more than ready to spend the day sulking alone in his room. Before he could skulk out of the dining hall, trying to avoid Kinnale and Eomer as he did so, Aragorn felt his arm being snagged and he was dragged into a corner by a young blonde woman who seemed only vaguely familiar to him.

Smiling up at him, the woman said softly, "I had a good time last night. It's a shame we were so rudely interrupted, don't you agree?"

"I don't…" He was startled when the woman, whose name he had no idea of and whose face he could not quite place, draped her arms around his neck and pressed her firm body to his. Taking a sudden step backwards – and coming up against a solid wall – Aragorn put his hands up to halt her unprecedented actions. "I'm sorry; what are you doing?"

"Just…I thought…well, after what happened last night…"

"What happened?"

"You don't remember?" Aragorn shook his head in response to her disappointed question and her face fell and she retreated away from him a step. "Oh. You were a little…merry last night but…Well," she smiled although it didn't reach her eyes, "never mind. Last night was last night and today…" Shaking her blonde head, she started walking, calling behind her, "I'll see you around."

The young woman had hurried off long before Aragorn had recovered himself enough to call after her and asked for a better explanation of just what was going on. As he trudged down the corridors, his mind was spinning, this time with his thoughts rather than because of his post-celebration dizziness. He wanted to go back to bed and sleep off this horrendous headache but a deep ache had settled in the pit of his stomach instead. What had happened last night that had upset the woman so?

Confused as he was, it took the man a while to realise that rather than heading back to his rooms, he was instead aimlessly wandering around deserted hallways.

Pausing, Aragorn leaned back against the nearest wall, feeling the rough but wonderfully cool stone soothing the back of his neck. He tried to think upon the strange woman's obviously hurt words, on his own body's instinctive reaction to her closeness but every time he tried to grasp on one explanation it eluded him in its entirety.

With his head spinning and frustration and therefore impatience beginning to settle in, Aragorn came to a decision. One thing that he was certain about was that he needed a cool, more experienced opinion on all this. Regardless of what had recently transpired between them, Aragorn wanted his guardian.

Tracking Legolas down was not as easy as he had hoped. Personally, Aragorn had not seen Legolas in days and so had no clue where exactly in Meduseld the Elf was staying. The Rangers had no idea either and the Rohirrim proved just as clueless when he asked them. And all proved reluctant to help in the search for the Elf they believed had unforgivably betrayed them.

Frustrated and angry now, Aragorn strode through the halls until he reached where Eomer was staying. As Lord of Edoras, he must surely have known the location of the elusive Elf. Slamming into the room without pausing to knock, Aragorn found Eomer sat on the floor with maps spread in front of him.

"Where is Legolas?" Aragorn demanded of the commander without preamble.

"I'm sorry?"

"Legolas. I can't find him anywhere and no one will help me. Do you know where he is?"

Eomer shook his head, admitting, "I'm afraid I do not. I haven't seen him since we got here."

"Well, he must be somewhere," Aragorn shouted, although it was more through renewed panic than genuine anger. Despite all the nasty things he had said to his guardian in recent days, Aragorn's heart pounded in fear at the thought that he might not see him again.

"Calm down," Eomer told him as he climbed to his feet, being careful not to dislodge any of the torn maps set out before him. "Hama," he turned to the other man in the room whom Aragorn had not even noticed until now, "do you know where Legolas was placed in the hall?"

Scratching his thick ginger beard thoughtfully, Hama considered this for a moment and Aragorn shuffled on his feet to keep his patience in check as he waited for the man to search his memory. "I do believe he was given accommodation in the east wing."

"Hm." As far away from the commander's quarters as possible, Eomer realised.

"East wing. Where is that?" Aragorn asked abruptly.

He didn't know quite why he suddenly felt so intensely that it was vital that he find his guardian and mentor but Aragorn ran as fast as he could through the corridors, following the directions Hama had provided him with. This was no longer a selfish search for advice. He was worried.

It was perhaps not surprising that the bitter men had put Legolas in the east wing, the worst-maintained part of the house of Edoras. Far from the splendour of the Golden Hall, this place was more akin to Helm's Deep, worn and decaying. It seemed that hardly any of the rooms were occupied as many of the doors hung open on their hinges.

Coming to the room Hama had directed him to, Aragorn stopped and opened the door without knocking.

There was no bed or even a thin mattress in the room; just a threadbare, rumpled blanket laid out on the dusty wooden floor where Legolas had obviously slept the night before. It was dark, with heavy wooden shutters covering the windows and no candles or fire burning, so it was also bitterly cold in the room, which was clearly only barely fit for human habitation and most certainly not fit for housing a prince.

However, the was no sign of the Elf anywhere, so Aragorn called out, "Legolas, are you in here?"

Although there came no response, Aragorn didn't leave but stepped further inside. The Elf's pack laid on the floor but there was no other sign that Legolas had even been here.

"Legolas?"

Just as he'd decided that his mentor must have forsaken his terrible room and ventured out into another part of Meduseld, Aragorn heard a soft moan from across the room and he froze. It was barely audible and would no doubt have been missed had Aragorn not been so alert for proof that Legolas was still here.

Taking a further step into the room, Aragorn looked about. Nothing. Except…This time it was a weak cough that drew his attention – towards the only other door in the room. Obviously, Legolas was in there and Aragorn dashed over to it, grabbing the knob and yanking it open, uncaring that he had not been invited inside.

"Legolas!" Aragorn exclaimed in horror, launching his shocked body forward to where his guardian laid face-down on the floor of the small, filthy bathroom. Laying his hands on the Elf, as though by doing so he could simply divine what was wrong with him, Aragorn took in the scene that had greeted him.

Legolas was dressed in clean clothes, but they were drenched in sweat and dust from the floor clung to them. His breathing was shallow, the hand that Aragorn grasped tightly was cold to the touch and his skin was deathly pale.

How long had the Elf been lying here all alone, unable to call for help?

Guilt washed over the young man, cramping in his stomach. Had Legolas been laying face-down on this floor since last night whilst he and his fellow Men were partying?

"Legolas, can you hear me?" Aragorn leaned close, hoping for but not expecting a response. He received none. He laid his hand against Legolas' pale cheek then immediately withdrew it. "Ai, you are so cold!" the young man exclaimed. Drawing back, he shed his own jacket and laid it over the Elf for warmth. As he did so, he noticed something infinitely more worrying. The silver tunic – one the Elf had been given by Erestor in Rivendell Aragorn realised – bore a deep red bloodstain on the side where Legolas had been previously injured. "Oh my…Your wound! Damn it," the young man swore out loud at his own stupidity. In his anger at Legolas' betrayal of his fellow Men, Aragorn had forgotten – or maybe ignored? – the fact that Legolas had been so recently injured.

"Um, alright, I'll…I'll get help. I'll be right back." Even as he spoke, Aragorn was climbing to his feet.

Another soft moan caused Aragorn to halt suddenly in his tracks, however. Although his eyes remained tightly closed, Legolas' hand reached up weakly to the bowl of the dirty toilet, next to which he was laid, and attempted to drag himself up but found that he could barely even lift his head off the floor.

"Legolas? Legolas!"

Dropping back to the floor beside the Elf, Aragorn tried to guide Legolas' hand back down but the Elf fought him as best he could, still trying to drag himself up.

"You need to lay still. Your injury…"

"Aragorn," the ailing Elf murmured quietly and his eyes opened a slit to blearily look up at his ward. "Help…me…up."

"You can hear me?" His voice held excitement and no small amount of relief at being recognised.

His own faltering voice much thicker now, Legolas repeated, "Help," still struggling to drag himself upwards.

Finally taking note of his guardian's words, Aragorn gently took Legolas' arms, supporting him up into a slumped sitting position. Even as he asked, "What?" though, Legolas' pale fingers gripped the edge of the toilet bowl and he leaned over, vomiting violently as he did so.

Aragorn had no choice but to support Legolas' thin, trembling body as he retched, for it seemed the Elf had not the strength to hold himself up.

Aragorn wondered how often during his time all alone in these cold, lonely rooms Legolas had repeated this same process and again his stomach clenched with painful guilt.

Once Legolas had finished, he fell limply down, relying on Aragorn to keep him from dropping to the hard stone floor, gasping shallowly in an attempt to catch his breath in the wake of his exertions.

Gently, Aragorn lowered his guardian to rest on the floor. Legolas made absolutely no attempt to move; he merely laid utterly limply on his front on the flagstones of the bathroom, one arm folded beneath him, the other resting out in front of him. Now the man found himself torn between staying with the ailing Legolas and running to get help.

His conundrum was sorted a minute later when Legolas' eyes opened again, this time focusing on his frightened young ward, and said croakily, "Help me…up."

Worried that Legolas was nauseous again, Aragorn eased him up carefully but once he was sat, Legolas pushed weakly at his guardian.

"I…" Legolas shook his head, unable to continue. He was too weak, it seemed. His gaunt face was paler than Aragorn had ever seen it before, his eyes rimmed with dark circles from lack of sleep.

"Listen, I have to fetch a healer; you need help. Can you walk?"

Although Legolas made no response, Aragorn forced him up onto his feet. Unfortunately, the Elf's legs were too weak to support even his light frame and almost as soon as he was upright he collapsed back against his ready ward. In his current state, Legolas was unable to even mumble an apology, nor protest as Aragorn awkwardly held him up, uncertain as to how to continue.

"Legolas?" the boy called shakily. If only his guardian would tell him what to do.

Yelling for help would do no good; there was no one about in this part of the castle to hear. And there was certainly no hope of Legolas walking back to the main wing of the hall.

"I need to get a healer," Aragorn repeated desperately, gently lowering Legolas back down to the floor, apologising under his breath when his mentor groaned at the movement. Once the Elf was safely laid down, this time somewhat more comfortably on his side, Aragorn explained to him, "I have to leave for a while but I'll be back in a moment with a healer. They'll be able to help you then."

As before, Legolas made no response; he simply laid there, breathing heavily as if it was a great strain.

"I'll be right back," Aragorn called behind him as he raced from the room, back through the corridors of the east wing of Meduseld towards where he knew the healers had set up the hospital area for the injured transported from Helm's Deep.

By the time Aragorn had returned with a Rohan healer in tow, Legolas had crawled his way back to the toilet and was draped inelegantly over the bowl again.

The healer stepped towards him, unfazed by his condition, immediately pressing her hand to his brow to find it burning hot with fever.

Looking across at Aragorn, who stood helplessly wringing his hands in the doorway, she ordered, "Get me a bowl of cold water. It is imperative we bring his fever down before we try to move him from this wretched place."

Aragorn nodded then obligingly began rifling through what small cupboards lined the bedroom walls. He did eventually find a bowl and returned to the bathroom. Unfortunately, Legolas seemed to have been put in the most run-down part of the golden castle of Rohan where there was not even a simple store of water. Slamming his hand down on the useless basin, Aragorn looked back to where the healer was proceeding to unbutton Legolas' shirt, leaving him draped over the bowl where they'd found him as he seemed somewhat at ease in that position.

"There's no water in here. I'll go find some."

On his way into the centre of Meduseld, Aragorn ran into a rather bemused Kinnale and Janor but did not pause to explain to them what was going on. Legolas needed him more.

"Shush. Do not fight me; I am only trying to help you," the healer was saying to Legolas when Aragorn returned with a bowl of cold water. On the floor again now, Legolas was grasping the woman's wrist with weak fingers as if trying to force her away from him. It was perhaps brought on by pain, Aragorn thought, seeing the healer's free hand peeling away the blood-caked bandage that had concealed Legolas' wound.

"Can I help?" Aragorn asked reluctantly, stepping towards them.

Immediately, the healer detected the concern in his eyes, which were focused on her trapped wrist. She was quick to reassure him, "He has not the strength to hurt me."

Honestly, Aragorn didn't know whether to be reassured or disconcerted by this. Under normal circumstances, Legolas would have been able to snap that thin wrist with frighteningly minimal effort. That he was unable to do so now was a sure sign of his illness.

"Perhaps this would be easier in the bedroom where there is more space."

"I do not think he can walk."

"Maybe if we help him."

Nodding obligingly, Aragorn carefully laid the bowl of water down on the floor and slowly moved over to his guardian. "Are you sure moving him won't hurt him more?" he asked, his tone anxious.

"So short a distance should cause no permanent harm."

"Can we not take him to the healing halls then? Surely he would be better off there?"

"First I need to get control of this bleeding. Left untouched he will bleed out and then be beyond my help," the healer explained calmly as she lifted one of Legolas' arms to place it over her shoulder.

"Is it alright. I can carry him."

The woman looked him up and down, trying to judge if he could indeed manage this burden. "Very well. But carefully," she warned as Aragorn crouched down at her patient's side.

Lifting the prince proved effortless. Legolas weighed almost nothing. Weak hands gripped at Aragorn's shirt and a sharp gasp of pain escaped Legolas' lips as he was lifted up off the cold floor. Aragorn apologised in a whisper even though he was uncertain whether Legolas could hear his words of regret.

Aragorn carried his mentor slowly, steadily into the bedroom, being careful not to jostle him. How very wrong this felt, taking care of one who had always taken care of him.

"Set him down on the blanket," the healer instructed. Rushing ahead of him, she went to the shutters and pulled them open to allow some daylight into the room so she could work. "I'll need a cloth and that water. We have to bring his fever down slowly."

"Is his wound infected?"

"Most likely."

The healer knelt next to Legolas and gently began to unbutton his shirt. The Elf tossed his head in protest but the young woman met no resistance from him that she couldn't handle herself. Nonetheless, Aragorn sat next to his mentor, having retrieved all the healer could ask for, and snatched Legolas' hand, squeezing tightly to let Legolas know he was still there and no longer suffering this affliction alone.

Now that she was able to peel away the bandage, the healer got her first proper look at the wound marring her patient's side and winced. It did not look good. Over the years since she had been taught the art of healing, the woman had seen all too many war wounds and with so few supplies and herbs available for use, infection setting in was a common side-effect.

This was no small infection though. The wound was hot to the touch and oozing slightly. Obviously, it was painful because even at her gentle touch a cry escaped her patient and he shied away.

"I am sorry, Legolas, but I have to clean this wound."

Legolas gave no hint that he had heard what had been said, he simply tossed his head to the side. So the healer began to expertly cleanse the wound. After the battle at Helm's Deep, the healers had been inundated with similar hurts so by now it was almost second nature treating this kind of injury.

Under normal circumstances, Legolas would no doubt have proven a troublesome patient but now he seemed too weak to even form a verbal protest let alone struggle against the healer's efforts. As Aragorn continued to hold onto his guardian's hand, Legolas laid limply on the floor, deathly pale and breathing shallowly, as if each single breath was a chore almost too difficult to endure. Every so often, that breathing would hitch or he'd gasp softly in pain.

"We're nearly done," the healer reassured as she laid a fresh bandage over the wound to help ease the bleeding.

Once she had patched him up, the healer laid the wet cloth she had prepared against his furrowed brow.

"Is he going to be alright?" Aragorn anxiously asked of her.

"I hope so." Not the most encouraging response she could have given but vague enough not to be constituted as a promise.

As the healer packed away her sparse supplies, Legolas shifted uncomfortably on the floor, his eyes opening a slit to look blearily up at the dull grey ceiling.

"Legolas? You're going to be fine now," the young man promised softly, his voice slightly more choked than he would have considered ideal. "You're going to be…"

Before Aragorn could finish, Legolas began coughing, a deep, hacking cough that immediately struck fear into Aragorn's heart. The cough sounded so terribly, so frighteningly similar to the one he had heard coming from his father before he had died. He simply could not stand losing his guardian in the same way as he had lost his beloved father.

Worried that another bout of vomiting could very well follow, the healer told Aragorn, "Let's get him onto his side."

Carefully, they both shifted a compliant Legolas over onto his good side and it was a good job too. The Elf almost immediately started retching again, although he had nothing left in his stomach to bring up. Unable to do anything more than soothe his mentor, Aragorn retrieved the basin the healer had been using and positioned it carefully under Legolas' mouth.

How he despised seeing his guardian so utterly helpless. This was not how his most trusted companion was supposed to ever be. Legolas was unerringly strong, immune to the illnesses that may have affected lesser men. Never had Aragorn been witness to his mentor's suffering, not like this. No doubt, Legolas would despise the idea of his ward, whom he had always tried to shield from his sufferings, being witness to such vulnerability, such weakness.

After the Elf's retching had ceased again, he lay unmoving on the floor and Aragorn looked up to discover that the healer had disappeared from his side – he hadn't even noticed her leaving.

Thankfully, he didn't have to wait long for her return. She came back bearing a larger bowl of water and was this time accompanied, most surprisingly, by a worried-looking Kinnale.

Upon seeing Legolas, pale and trembling, laid out on the floor, his head practically pillowed on the future King of Gondor's lap, Kinnale uttered a foul oath under his breath. He should never have let the vengeful Rohirrim banish Legolas to this lonely, isolated part of the Golden Hall, no matter how far out of favour the Elf had fallen with the Men. Guilt twisted inside his chest like a knife. This was his fault. Had he insisted that Legolas be housed along with the rest of the returning warriors then someone would have noticed sooner that the Elf had fallen ill. As it was, it was entirely possible that had Aragorn not decided to come by this morning, Legolas would have laid on this cold floor and died all alone in this forsaken place and no one would have been any the wiser.

One look at Aragorn's grim expression told Kinnale that the boy felt much the same way.

"Don't you think he'd be better off in the healing hall where there are other physicians?" Kinnale asked the young healer as he finally came to Legolas' side.

"I want to wait a couple of hours to be absolutely sure that his wound has stopped bleeding completely before I attempt to move him. He has lost a lot of blood already and he cannot afford to lose any more."

"Will he live?" Blunt and seemingly indifferent though the question was, Kinnale was filled was renewed dread at what the answer might be.

Before the serious healer could answer though, Aragorn snapped, "Of course he will!"

Kinnale nodded uncertainly at the young man, his eyes roaming over Legolas' prone body. "Of course," he mumbled to himself. He then turned to the woman who was laying another wet cloth on Legolas' chest in an attempt to bring down his fever. "Do you need anything?"

"Not right now."

The healer knelt down at Legolas' side, opposite Aragorn, so she could wash the Elf down with the cold water-soaked towels. Legolas whimpered at the touch as if in pain. He shivered and trembled at the cold sensation pressed against his already cold skin. However, he no longer fought those trying to help him, although Aragorn thought that this was most likely due to a lack of strength rather than lack of will.

In fact, the only time Legolas did make some small noise of protest was when the healer unbuckled his belt and went to drag down his trousers. He weakly hit out his hand in the healer's general direction in an attempt to stop her but his actions went entirely unheeded.

The healer bathed Legolas completely in the cold water, ignoring the Elf's self-conscious protests even though he didn't seem certain of what was going on around him. Meanwhile, Aragorn soothed Legolas' brow, trying to reassure the Elf that all would be well. Kinnale stood by the door, uncomfortably looking anywhere but at the prince. Friends they may have been but this felt like an unforgiveable intrusion into Legolas' privacy. Surely Legolas would never have approved of his presence when in such an exposed position.

With the possibility that even in his current state of only semi-consciousness, Legolas might be feeling embarrassed at being so observed, Kinnale cleared his throat then said, "I'm just in the way here. I think I'll wait outside."

"Relax, Commander," the young healer smiled, unfazed by what was making the other two men so uncomfortable. "I'm all finished now."

"Great."

Rolling her green eyes at the bulky man loitering in the doorway, the woman muttered, "Are all Rangers so squeamish?"

In response, Kinnale shot back, "Are all Rohirrim so disrespectful?"

"Please stop arguing," Aragorn interrupted before the young woman could come up with a sharp retort.

Getting up off the floor, the healer picked up the bowl of water and went to the door, which Kinnale begrudgingly opened for her. "I'm going to see if there are any herbs to spare."

"Can you not give him something to ease the pain?" Aragorn called to her from where he was still sat cradling Legolas' head in his lap.

"We have no such herbs here in Rohan."

"Nothing at all?" demanded an increasingly irritated Kinnale.

"No."

"Perhaps you could ask a more senior healer if there might be something to help_ Prince _Legolas feel more at ease," the large man suggested almost menacingly.

"Yes, I suppose I could do that, but it would be a waste of my time because I already know the answer," she ground out in reply, torn between remaining professional and losing her temper with this know-it-all Ranger.

"A little wasted time I can live with," Kinnale countered easily. "Maybe we should go see your boss together, just to be sure."

"_Fine_."

"Fine."

"He said stop arguing," Aragorn's voice suddenly interrupted both man and woman and they both turned to see Aragorn bent down, apparently listening to the blonde Elf. "He told you to stop fighting."

Kinnale took a couple of steps towards them and sincerely said, "My apologies, Legolas. We will go to the healing hall and return a little calmer." The healer also opened her mouth to speak, although Kinnale expected it to be in order to snap out a sharp comment at being told what to do rather than to utter her own apology to the shivering Elf, but the Ranger gently took her arm and guided her out into the hall, closing the door behind him to provide Legolas with some degree of privacy in the unlikely event that someone should pass by.

Suddenly finding himself alone with Legolas again, Aragorn looked around the bare room then back down at the pale, shivering Elf. He pulled the damp cloth from Legolas' brow to refresh it and Legolas shuddered violently again, his head thrashing slightly in the man's lap.

"The healer will be back soon," Aragorn assured, simply for something to say to break the hush.

After wringing out the cloth in the small bowl of water the healer had left behind, Aragorn went to replace it but was halted suddenly by blue eyes looking blearily up at him in confusion.

"Legolas, are you awake?"

Legolas' lips twitched ever so slightly upward at the unnecessary question but he nevertheless answered, "Yes," so quietly that it was barely audible to the man.

"How do you feel?"

Another unnecessary question that this time the Elf decided not to answer. Instead, he closed his eyes wearily for a long moment.

Shivering violently again, Legolas opened his eyes to look up imploringly at his ward as he asked, "Could I…have a blanket…please?"

"Uh, I suppose so." The healer, before she had left, had given him no instructions. A blanket could surely not do any harm. He gently pulled the blanket from under Legolas' thin form, damp though it may have been from the healer's attentions, and wrapped it around the shuddering Elf. He wasn't really sure whether the request had come from his feeling the cold or just simply feeling embarrassed at being left unclothed on the floor by the young female healer. Either way, the prince seemed more at ease, covered as he now was in his threadbare blanket and that in turn comforted Aragorn.

**To Be Continued…**


	42. Helpless Frustrations Of Tortured Minds

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thank you so much if you have left a review. This story is a little tricky for me to write as it's so out of my comfort zone so I appreciate all the encouragement.**

**Hope you enjoy this chapter…**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 42 – Helpless Frustrations of Tortured Minds**

The next few days passed in a blur for both the fevered Legolas and the terribly worried Aragorn.

Once the healer had been convinced that both the wound and fever had been suitably brought under control, they had gently moved Legolas on a stretcher into the main hall of Meduseld where the still recovering wounded were being temporarily housed. There, at least, he was more comfortable than he would have been had he laid on the cold, hard floor in the deserted east wing of the great palace.

Guilty for their part in isolating Legolas so much from the rest of their Men in revenge for his actions at Helm's Deep, Kinnale and Eomer came by to check on the Elf several times each day. On the other hand, Aragorn did not leave his guardian's side unless he absolutely had to.

There was little anyone could do to prevent Aragorn from silently torturing himself over his role in his guardian's condition. Ultimately, it had been he who had driven Legolas away. The prince would have fought any decision put to him by the two commanders of Men but he would never go against his ward's wishes unless he felt he had no other choice, which clearly had not been the case. So it was Aragorn's fault – in his mind, at least – and nothing could change that.

Unfortunately, the only person who could convince Aragorn otherwise was currently incapable of even speaking. And so the man suffered alone, not heeding the reassurances from his other friends for they felt empty and insincere.

Healers came and went frequently, buzzing about one minute then the next nowhere to be seen. They came with regularity, such as which Aragorn could tell the exact time of day just by watching their wanderings. They repeated the same process every time they came by. Checked on the patients briefly, completed any small chores, ensured waiting friends and relatives that reports to the physicians would be made, and then just as swiftly moved onto the next patient.

With Kinnale and Eomer lingering around the hall so much, the young healer who had first come to aid Legolas in the east wing of the palace was replaced by the most senior and experienced of Rohan's healers. He cared personally for Legolas, giving him attentions not normally afforded to anyone but the commander of the realm of Rohan. There was little even he, with all his decades of experience, could do to help the Elven prince though. Once again, it was simply a game of patience.

Legolas' fever continued to peak and ebb over the next four days. Only very rarely did he wake and even then he seemed unaware of what was going on about him or who was watching over him. Glassy eyes did not even register Aragorn at his side, not once.

It was almost a week of suffering these ups and downs before Legolas finally came out of his fever-induced sleep for any significant length of time. Mercifully, Aragorn was sat at his side when at last he did stir.

The boy almost leapt up in excitement when Legolas mumbled something softly under his breath, shifting his head slightly against the coolness of the pillow.

"Legolas? Are you awake?" Aragorn called softly close to his guardian's ear once he had quashed his excitement to a more acceptable level.

"Ada," the Elf murmured to himself and immediately Aragorn felt his heart plummet in his chest in disappointment. That same foreign word he could not understand again. Too often he had heard this frustrating word slip from his guardian's lips and he was still no closer to understanding its meaning.

Taking Legolas' frail hand in his own, the young man squeezed it gently and leant closer so that he could whisper, "It is me. Aragorn."

Legolas' brow furrowed at this, although his reaction was at least of some comfort to Aragorn, for it indicated that at the very least Legolas was responding to him, albeit in confusion. It came of even more of a relief when the Elf mumbled, "Aragorn," under his breath with the slightest ghost of a smile on his pale, parched lips. After a struggle, Legolas' eyes slowly opened a crack and then widened when they weren't blinded by sunlight. He blinked several times rapidly to clear his vision then shifted his unfocused gaze to the worried face of his ward. "What…?" Legolas went to ask but found that his throat was too dry to force out and articulate any further words.

"Oh, I'll get you some water," Aragorn offered quickly, retrieving a cup of fresh water from where it rested nearby. "Here you go." He gently lifted Legolas' head off the pillow and rested the cup to his lips.

After closing his eyes to ward off the dizziness that immediately assaulted him at being moved, Legolas gratefully sipped at the cool water, for a moment simply relishing the feel of the refreshing liquid moving down his parched throat. Once he had finished off the water, he laid back on the pillow with Aragorn's guidance and remained perfectly still whilst he again tried to adjust to this new position.

"Thank you," he smiled once he could see his young ward clearly again.

Grinning widely at the praise, Aragorn answered softly, "You are welcome."

Trying his original question again, Legolas asked, "What happened?"

"You don't remember?" The Elf shook his head carefully, mindful of the throbbing ache that had settled in his head and radiated down his neck. "You were unwell. I found you passed out in your rooms."

Confused eyes, ever so slightly more focused than before, shifted about the unfamiliar place in which he was now laid. "Where am I?" How disconcerting it was not to know, for one who always liked to be in control.

"A hall in Meduseld. The healers and physicians have set up a base here for the wounded."

"Healers?" Why was it so difficult for his mind to process what his ward was plainly telling him? He just couldn't seem to grasp what was happening. It didn't help that the pounding was making it hard to concentrate and the exhaustion was already pulling him down again.

"Yes. You have been here for almost a week now. You had a fever but it broke a couple of days ago and we have been waiting for you to wake."

Legolas frowned again, wincing when the small action made his head ache even more. "Fever?"

"We were very worried about you for a time."

Shaking his head carefully, the Elf confessed with a weary sigh, "I don't remember any of this."

From the way his guardian was now struggling to keep his eyes open, Aragorn could see that even this short conversation was tiring the Elf out. Smiling, Aragorn assured him, "It's alright. I'm sure it'll come back to you eventually." After a short nod from Legolas, the prince's eyes fell closed once more. "Sleep for a while. I'll still be here when you wake."

Legolas might have drifted away from him again and returned to the state of slumber he had been in for days now, but Aragorn's heart was considerably lighter than it had been in a long time. He sat back with a long, deep sigh of relief. All the tension flowed from him in an instant. Legolas was no longer in danger. For now, at least, things were looking up.

**OIOI**

"How is he today?"

That voice – so familiar. And yet he still found it difficult to place. Through the haze of confusion that still fogged his mind, the voices sounded distant and yet they felt close at the same time.

"He looks a little better, I think."

A soft laugh came then, musical and light and so very out of place amongst the pain and exhaustion. "Well, you should know," the voice said teasingly. "You do nothing but stare at him all day long."

Silence fell after that, so thick that Legolas thought that perhaps he had fallen back into that deep sleep from which he had just moments before been pulled. But then the voice, unmistakably Aragorn, continued, "He would do – has done – the same for me. I am not going to abandon him when he needs me the most."

"I think he'd appreciate that."

"I hope so," Aragorn sighed deeply. "I owe him much."

"Owe him?" The light female voice asked the same question that had immediately popped into Legolas' mind at the man's unlikely words. Why on earth should Aragorn owe _him_ anything?

Unfortunately for both listeners, Aragorn did not answer the question put to him. Easily, Legolas could picture him gazing thoughtfully into the distance, withdrawing into himself as he was prone to doing when in such a mood.

"Don't worry, Aragorn. No matter what you did – or think you did – Legolas will forgive you for it, I'm sure."

_Eowyn_, Legolas suddenly realised with a jolt, was the woman with whom Aragorn was speaking in quiet tones.

"Legolas?" the woman asked softly and Legolas wondered at her only now calling his name in question. Had he spoken something out loud without meaning to? He couldn't remember. "Can you hear me?"

Upon a soft hand being laid upon his forehead, Legolas smiled weakly despite himself. "Eowyn?"

"You see. I told you he would wake at your fair presence," Aragorn chuckled as Legolas fought to get his eyes open so he could look up at his two sentinels.

When he finally did manage it, he saw Eowyn smiling warmly down at him, smoothing his hair back rhythmically in such a way that reminded him of his childhood. "How are you feeling?"

"Confused."

"That is understandable."

"I'll get the healer," Aragorn announced with a broad smile, getting to his feet with apparent weariness. "He wanted to be informed as soon as you woke again."

Legolas followed him with his eyes as he protested, "I do not need a healer."

Pausing, Aragorn glanced down at the dazed Elf. "You are in no position to decide that," he warned somewhat darkly. "Lie still and wait for me to fetch a healer."

In submission, Legolas nodded obediently, fighting to keep a smile off his face at the boy's firm command. "As you wish," he wearily agreed, trying his upmost to remain focused on what was happening around him and not slipping into the sleep his body craved.

Rushing away to summon a healer, which he would have done whether Legolas had approved or not, Aragorn left Eowyn to look after the Elf in his rare absence. For a moment, Legolas allowed his eyes to fall closed but then he remembered that Eowyn was still at his side and for the first time since waking, surprise registered in his mind at this. Worried that perhaps he had imagined the woman's presence, Legolas looked up to find her indeed still there and perched on a chair at his bedside.

The young woman looked different to when he had last seen her at Helm's Deep. A little colour flushed her cheeks now, her hair had started to grow back, choppy and wispy but growing quickly and an easy smile crossed her lips as she gazed down at him, lighting her green eyes, so very similar to those of her brother, but warmer even than Eomer's. Her hand had once again come to rest upon his forehead and he found its presence there oddly comforting, and he let his eyes once again fall closed, uncharacteristically unguarded.

Eowyn smiled a warm smile as the prince visibly relaxed under her touch. She recalled him sitting at her bedside once as she recovered and it had brought her a small amount of peace and it was her pleasure now to return the favour. Besides, she liked the presence of her saviour; he made her feel safe even in his recuperation.

"Ah, it seems he has drifted off again," the physician smiled as he approached with Aragorn.

"No, he hasn't," the prince mumbled quietly, although in truth he had come very close to falling asleep again, basking in the warmth and security that surrounded him. The pain was still present in the background but laid still, it was bearable for the moment.

Stepping closer, the physician, whom Legolas did not recognise when he managed to force his eyes open again, smiled down at him, pressing two fingers to the Elf's wrist to check his pulse without asking permission.

"How do you feel today, Your Highness?" the healer asked with almost annoying cheer that he must have practiced much on patients to have so perfected it.

"Please call me Legolas." A plea rather than a request. How he despised that useless title now.

"Very well, Legolas. How do you feel?"

"Alright."

Not accepting such a vague answer, the physician finally let go of Legolas' wrist and admonished, "I cannot help you unless you are entirely truthful with me." The healer's shrewd green eyes swept over to where Aragorn and the young Eowyn hovered still nearby and immediately recognised the intense pride emanating from the Elf. "Would you feel more comfortable if we discussed this in private?"

"It's alright," replied Legolas wearily. He really couldn't care either way.

"We should leave you to speak with Valon alone," Eowyn told him, removing her hand finally from the Elf's creased brow. Having been under the physician's care for a long while now, she knew that it often was to discuss such matters in privacy.

Looking blearily towards his ward, Legolas asked quietly of him, "Who is Valon?"

"Your physician."

"Oh." He wished he could think clearly. It would make things a whole lot easier.

"Alright, give us a moment to speak alone," the healer – Valon, Legolas now understood – told the man and woman bluntly, a command now instead of a suggestion as it had been before. "And, Eowyn, you should not be out of bed."

"My apologies, Valon. I shall obey," she smiled, touching Legolas' shoulder in farewell.

"I'll help you back to your bed," Aragorn offered, linking his arm with that of the woman's for support.

Alone now, Valon pulled the thick blanket covering his patient down a little, intending to check on his injury. "So how are you feeling – in all honesty?"

"Um…" It was hard to put his thoughts in order and even harder to vocalise them, especially to someone he didn't know. So, he said the first thing that came to mind. "Weary."

Aragorn might have been stunned and concerned by the simple confession of weakness but the healer shook his head, unsatisfied, and pressed, "I was looking for something a little deeper than just tired."

Blinking lethargically, Legolas tried to come up with something a little less vague but the truth was that he was concentrating too hard on keeping himself awake to put too much thought into anything else, including assessing his body for hurts.

Helping him out after a long silence, the healer prompted, "Is the pain tolerable?"

"Yes – so long as I lay still."

"That is good." Unbuttoning the shirt Legolas wore, Valon checked the bandage for blood but fortunately found it acceptably clean. That was most certainly a relief. With infection having set in, the wound on Legolas' side had not healed as well as hoped. It had been bleeding profusely and had been an immense worry to the healers working on the prince. Already weakened from infection, Legolas had deteriorated. "Are you experiencing any nausea?"

Legolas nodded carefully, although it wounded his pride somewhat to admit it. "Some."

"Dizziness?"

"Yes."

"Well, that is to be expected for now. I'm afraid all I can offer you is the advice to rest."

"Sounds like a plan," Legolas muttered wearily, grumpily even.

"Alright then," Valon chuckled in understanding, not offended by the clipped tone. He had heard worse insults from the pained during his time. "Get some rest. I will return in an hour or so to change your dressings."

"Thank you."

By now, Legolas was more than ready to return to sleep, the short conversation having already drained him of what small amount of energy he had had, when Aragorn returned quietly to his side. Unfortunately, by then he was having trouble keeping his eyes open though. Blinking blearily up at his ward, he attempted a smile, although he didn't know whether it came out as such, or as he suspected, a grimace.

"Valon is pleased with your progress," Aragorn grinned brightly, relieved beyond words by the quick reassurance he'd just received from the physician in passing.

"Yes."

Seeming to understand, and for once take heed of, the Elf's weariness, Aragorn told him, "Rest. We can talk later."

The exhausted Elf needed no further encouragement and slipped almost immediately back into his dreams. It was such a blessed relief to be away from the loud noises, bright light and pain and exhaustion of the waking world.

He dreamed of trees, of vast, sweeping forests of the most vivid green almost unimaginable in the world changed. He dreamed of teeming life, undimmed and joyfully going about their daily chores under the high canopy of lofty green. He smelled the freshness of the clean air and felt the glorious warmth of sunshine upon his face. He dreamed periodically of his home, Mirkwood's great stone palace, magnificent even designed as it was to be an impenetrable fortress against the spreading darkness of Dol Guldur. He walked, or rather drifted, through familiar halls, smiled in greeting to familiar people as they met him with kind words, and rejoiced in the musical singing the Elves so loved to partake in. He basked in the pure love directed at him, undaunted for the first time by the memories of his past.

The reprieve from the waking world into this blissful dreamscape was not to last long though. Pain niggled at his dulled senses. In the real world, he was uncomfortable and the dream world in which he briefly walked would not abide the disturbance.

Moving would do him no good; that had only made things worse before. Waking would surely not help either but it seemed he had little choice in that matter. Sleep would not easily return to him once he had left its confines. Opening his eyes seemed a challenge too great to even attempt, so he simply laid quietly, trying to avoid the instinctive temptation to hold his breath in order to lessen the pain that shot up his side and across his chest.

It was quiet all about him, he realised, unlike the last time he had been awake. Unfortunately, it was right then that he actually needed people about. Perhaps that healer – Valon, was it? – could give him something to ease the pain, or at least send him back to sleep. Deciding that it was worth the effort of opening his heavy eyes to check and see if the healer was about, Legolas looked up at the blurry stone ceiling, patterned with long, branching cracks, to gain his bearings before allowing his gaze to drift about the hall. No light shone from the tall windows so Legolas assumed that night had fallen whilst he'd slept. How much time had passed, he remained unsure of. It felt at the same time both mere minutes and long hours, impossible though such a twist of time was.

Surprisingly – or rather annoyingly – this seemed to be one of the rare times that Aragorn had left his side. Just when he actually needed the boy as well.

Now fully alert, the pain had increased, climbing up to become almost intolerable. How was it possible that no healers wandered amongst the few remaining patients even at night when they were supposed to be asleep?

A soft groan escaped his constricted throat, much to his own bemusement. Once, he would have been able to control himself better than this. For years he had lived with a similar burning deep within his chest without ever allowing it to show through to the boy he had raised. That he had slipped so easily now was greatly vexing to him.

"Legolas?" a soft voice whispered through the hush, making him startle then look about again for its source.

In a moment, Eowyn was leaning over him, peering intently at his face.

"You are awake?" she asked, a frown pinching her brow. Seeing how tense the Elf was laid on the bed, the astute young woman deduced, "You're in pain." He nodded his confirmation, glad that he had not had to speak the words whilst at the same time willing the world to stop its relentless and sickening spinning. Touching his arm soothingly, Eowyn told him, "I'll go fetch a healer for you."

"Thank you," Legolas managed to squeeze out, although he could barely hear the sound so doubted Eowyn would have caught the words.

It felt like long hours had passed before Valon returned carrying a lantern to light his way amongst the beds and patients and followed by Eowyn who was hurrying him along.

"Eowyn tells me that your wound is causing you some significant discomfort," Valon stated without preamble, laying down the lamp so he could see the Elf properly. Legolas merely nodded in response, wincing at the harsh light hurting his eyes. "Is it your side?"

"Yes."

Turning down the blanket covering the prince, Valon went to check on the bandage. "I changed your dressing earlier whilst you slept. Undoubtedly that aggravated your injury somewhat."

This observation was not much help to Legolas. He wanted the fire lapping at his side to cool, not false platitudes.

"Let me just take a quick look."

Gently, Valon peeled away the dressing, causing Legolas to hiss in pain. The wound was red and angry-looking again and hot to the touch. Blood had once more collected on the white cloth being used as a bandage. All of which were sure signs of infection. In addition, a gloss of perspiration covered the Elf's fair skin and he shivered ever so slightly without the warmth of the blanket.

"Fetch me a bowl of cold water and some cloths," Valon ordered the junior healer who'd also followed him in, the one Legolas assumed was supposed to be on duty watching over the patients this night. "He is developing a fever once more. Damn, I did not need this to happen," he then swore, leaning in close to examine the wound again.

"Should I fetch Aragorn?" Eowyn asked in a whisper.

"No, he'll just be in the way right now. I need space."

"He would wish to know."

"I'll send for him later," Valon assured her distractedly as the junior healer returned with the water. "And you, my Lady, should still not be out of bed."

"I want to stay."

"Eowyn, there is nothing you can do right now. Legolas might be more comfortable enduring this procedure without an audience."

Sighing, the young woman nodded. "Alright. But you'll let me know if you need my help with anything, right?"

"Of course we will. Now, back to bed."

Begrudgingly, Eowyn returned to her own mattress and climbed under the thin blanket. She was determined to stay awake though, watching the healers surrounded by the bubble of orange lamplight washing Legolas down with cold water. Every so often Legolas would utter a cry or a whimper or a soft groan and Eowyn felt great sympathy for the Elf. Over the past few weeks under the healers' attentive care, she had come to appreciate how utterly miserable it felt to be constantly run-down by illness and even more miserable to be constantly prodded at by overly enthusiastic physicians and their junior colleagues. Being gentle was hardly a requisite for a healer and physician. They only needed to know how to patch someone up well enough to get them back on their feet and able to fight.

"Please don't," Legolas pleaded as cold water chilled his already freezing body. When he'd wanted help just minutes ago he had rather hoped for something more along the lines of pain relief. All these healers brought with them was further discomfort. He wanted them to leave him alone, or if not then he wanted to slip back into the blissful reverie of sleep.

"I am sorry, Legolas, but we need to bring your fever down some," Valon told him quietly as he laid his hand softly upon the disoriented Elf's shoulder to stay him. "Just lie still. We'll be done in a moment."

This assurance did little to ease Legolas' discomfort. However, all he could really do was sit still as Valon advised and wait for the misery to pass. Closing his eyes, he tried, as cold compresses were applied by the healers all over his body, to drift into reverie where he could walk undisturbed in the world of Elven dreams. For most of the time as he had travelled the Old Forest Road and then beyond he had survived by merely slipping into the Elven form of twilight rest in place of true sleep. It had served him well in a world where remaining alert was more often than not essential. Unfortunately, it failed him now. Every shudder renewed his misery and snatched the ideal of sleep away from him before he was ever allowed to indulge.

"There you go. We're all done now," Valon's voice sliced through the quiet. A blanket was pulled back over him and Legolas fought the urge to wrap it tightly around himself, supposing that he might get chastised for trying to warm himself after the healers had worked hard to cool him down. "Try to rest now, Legolas. I'm afraid we may have to repeat this again a little while later to keep that fever in check." The news did not make Legolas feel any better and he could easily imagine himself lying awake for the rest of the night waiting for the inevitable discomfort to return.

Suddenly, Legolas remembered the reason he had been woken in the first place and he opened his eyes just as Valon was going to leave his side.

"Do you…?" Legolas started, having to swallow dryly at the thickness in his throat. "Do you have anything to help with the pain?" he then asked in an almost embarrassed whisper.

The healer sighed regretfully at this askance. Sympathy for the poor souls injured during the battle at the Deep rested always heavily on the man's heart. Warriors were a fiercely proud set by nature. Most of the Men of Rohan currently laid in this hall with injuries of varying degrees would by far prefer to suffer in silence than ask for help and Valon suspected that Legolas was very much the same as the others. It must have put quite a dent in his pride to now ask for help.

So it hurt Valon's heart when, proud and stubborn as they were, finally the Men broke and were forced to beg for relief.

With another soft sigh, Valon told the Elf, "I am sorry, Your Highness. I'm afraid I don't have any herbs that will lessen your pain. I'm sorry," he added regretfully.

Blinking slowly, Legolas smiled a thin smile. "It's alright. It was a longshot anyway."

"I really wish there was something I could do."

Legolas shook his head softly against the pillow, now damp from the healer's attentions to his fevered body. "Forgive me for asking. I know you would help if I could," the prince said in a whisper.

"Do not ask forgiveness for requiring help. Many lying here would not be so brave as to ask."

"Thank you," Legolas said with a dismissive laugh.

Valon laughed out loud. "No other could thank me for _not_ helping! But you are welcome all the same. Now rest if you can. And send for me again if you have need to."

Despite his earlier assertion that sleep would elude him for the remainder of the night, almost as soon as Valon left he fell into a deep slumber away from the pain.

**OIOI**

"Eomer, we need to slow down."

"Again?" the commander of the Rohirrim ground out. "Aragorn, we're already moving at a snail's pace we cannot possibly go any slower."

"I know," the young man whispered, "but he is struggling."

Eomer glanced over his shoulder to where Legolas was steadily following behind them. With a shrug, he pointed out, "He looks fine to me."

"Well, he's not fine."

Pausing, Eomer turned to face the younger man and said with forced politeness and patience, "Aragorn, please, I am sympathetic to your concern but we cannot come to a grinding halt every time your guardian becomes a little out of breath."

"But…"

"Aragorn!"

Eomer patted the young man on the shoulder and grinned in amusement. "You're going to get into trouble again."

Rolling his eyes at the Rohan man as he walked away, Aragorn muttered an insult under his breath. He then turned to look at the one calling him, waiting for the Elf to catch him up.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't speak about me behind my back," Legolas told his ward breathlessly once he'd caught up.

Falling into step next to Legolas, Aragorn defended, "I was not!"

"Ah, so you were merely discussing the weather with Eomer, were you?"

"Yes, actually. He reckons on rain coming and I'm betting on it staying dry. What's your guess?"

Legolas smiled gently at the boy's sass. Surely he had learned such bravado from the Rangers because he had certainly never indulged in it with his ward. "Aragorn, you don't need to worry about me every minute of every day."

"Well, if you'd just consent to riding on one of the horses then I wouldn't have to."

They had had this argument before and Legolas was tired of hearing it by now. However, for Aragorn's benefit he'd repeat his reasoning once more. "There are people with far greater hurts than mine who need the use of those horses far more than I."

"You know, you are hurt too," Aragorn stressed, not for the first time.

Legolas nodded, his eyes on the ground, worried that on the uneven ground of the path from Edoras he might trip. "Yes," he answered dryly, "I have indeed noticed."

"I just mean that you have as much right as anyone else to…"

"Aragorn, the answer is 'no'." That note of finality in Legolas' voice told Aragorn that he wouldn't get anywhere further with his stubborn mentor and he shrugged in submission.

They had left the Golden Hall of Meduseld just three hours ago, this time taking the whole population of the Rohan people with them – man, woman, child and horse – to head towards Gondor. After the attack on Helm's Deep, the forces of Shadow were almost certain to descend on the town of Edoras and attack it without mercy. They had decided that it would be best not leave anyone behind to suffer that kind of wrath, so Eomer, with the fervent agreement of Kinnale, had ordered that they would take everyone along on the journey to Gondor.

Even after those few short hours, to Aragorn at least, Legolas seemed to be struggling somewhat. Still, the man knew that sheer stubbornness would keep Legolas on his feet for as long as was required of him.

**OIOI**

The whole of Barad-dur was tense. Every single Orc and Uruk was on edge. Every living thing was tense to the point of breaking. Each of them could feel their master's barely restrained wrath, no matter how far from the Tower they were.

This was a delicate time for the Dark Lord Sauron. His spirit was stretched, wearied as he burned through yet another battered Elven host. All that raging power so contained, crammed into the cramped confines of an earthly body, pained him, as much as the Lord of Darkness could be pained.

For a while now, the master of Barad-dur and all lands beyond had been locked away. None of the lord's lowly serfs knew quite how the process of changing one's energy from one body to another worked and nor did they care to. Few in the world knew. The Shadow Master's own dark magic, combined with magic of the Witchking of Angmar and the spell-casting of his turned Wizard, made the process possible.

Once a body would have sustained for years, but just lately he was going through them at an inexplicably accelerated rate. Perhaps it was all that raging power, growing hotter and stronger every day, or maybe the bodies – or 'hosts' as they were referred to – were just weaker than they had been in the past. That was surely to be expected of the lesser races.

Sauron had always relied on the resilient nature of the Elves. But the only Elves he knew of now in existence were in the Dark Lord's captivity and they had become over the years well and truly cowed, in both body and spirit. They no longer had the spark of strength that they had possessed when walking free. Tormented over decades in the pits of Mordor, it was little wonder that they had weakened so greatly and become poor vessels for his supreme power.

Recycling the same body was hardly ideal either. So much dark strength confined within a body – immortal or no – fairly ravaged the host. Some managed to survive the onslaught of dark power residing inside them but they were never the same afterwards; their spirits became battered and beyond repair. Unfortunately, Sauron's presence within their burnt-out bodies often left them all but useless.

As far as Sauron knew, the supply of Elves on Middle Earth was running desperately thin. Human bodies – and even the stronger bodies of the Dwarves – were no good to him. They could not sustain. He needed to be free once more; he needed his own body back rather than relying the weaker life-forms on Arda to sustain him.

But Sauron was far from strong enough yet, despite the immense strength garnered from the nineteen Rings of Power he had scavenged and stolen over the years, to pull off such a feat as restoring his old form.

Trapped within the Black Lands of Mordor, the Dark Lord remained prisoner, draining the life and spirit out of those few innocents still left captive in Mordor. It was frustrating almost beyond endurance, to have so much control over the lands and yet be able to enjoy the spoils of his great war on the world. Sometimes he thought that his success was just as much a curse. None could understand that but him. None of his other servants was so bound to Mordor. It was claustrophobic to be so confined.

And the process by which he was sustained was by no means perfect either. Like everything that had come with victory, it required much sacrifice on his part. Transferring his dark energy from one crumbling host to a fresh one drained him greatly. For long hours afterwards he required ample rest, deep rest where he did nothing at all to regain some of his former strength. At this point, he was undoubtedly at his most vulnerable. None of his enemies knew of this weakness. That much had been ensured. All allies outside of Mordor believed that he chose to stay in his Dark Lands. To have it otherwise could have been disastrous. An attack could be launched when he was at his weakest and he would be defenceless beyond the protection of his cohorts. Even so, when he was forced into this most hated of necessities, he locked himself away in the safest, strongest point in his Dark Tower, surrounded himself with only his most trusted servants and endured the process that disgusted him so with the hope that it might be the final tame it had to be suffered.

It took mere hours but during that time the energy of dark magic thrummed throughout all of Barad-dur leeching into the desiccated land and all the dark creatures inhabiting it. The screams of agony which Sauron drew from those he took by force echoed around the black halls of stone and it hurt the ears of those who were forced to listen to it despite their inherent love of pain and suffering.

Hobbling weakly back to the comfort of his throne room where he could oversee all, aided by his Voice and one of his most loyal wraith servants, Sauron silently fumed that this latest solution would not last.

As he was eased onto his black throne, the Dark Lord wondered about what could at last end this torture. With the One Ring, his most precious, seeming so very far out of his grasp, Sauron turned his mind instead towards the two travellers still escaping his legions. The boy may have been his primary concern but now, securely embedded within his new body, he found himself for the first time equally fixated on the Elf that accompanied him. Over the years since learning of this new threat to his reign, he had given surprisingly little thought to the Elf. He was but a guardian if reports were to be believed. Influential to be sure, but not a direct threat to him. Besides, he despised wasting the energy thinking upon the Elven culture, it so disgusted him.

But now he found himself wondering at that particular Elf's strength. To have survived all this time and still be fighting so fiercely, so tirelessly. Yes, that exiled Prince of Mirkwood could prove both a blessing and a curse. A curse because he guided the young king and Aragorn seemed to be influenced by him above any other and the Elf was wiser than any Man that walked the lands; but a blessing also because, once Sauron had him in his possession, as was inevitable, the Elf would no doubt prove a wonderful host. Being as strong as he so far demonstrated himself to be, Sauron did not doubt that the self-exiled Prince Legolas would last longer than the other souls he had taken. That provided some small glimmer of hope in his desolate, confined world.

Reclining his brand new and as of yet still stiff Elven body back into his chair of black stone, Sauron cracked an awkward smile at this thought.

From here on in, perhaps things were looking up for him after all.

**To Be Continued…**


	43. The White Wizard

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**Thanks so much for all your lovely reviews. If you leave a signed review, I'll do my best to get back to you. If not, you have my thanks anyway.**

**So, here it is…Chapter 43 – on my birthday as well. Aren't you lucky readers…**

**Enjoy…**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 43 – The White Wizard**

"Oh for the love of peace!" Legolas muttered darkly under his breath as he stalked angrily away from his unrepentant ward.

"What?" Aragorn called innocently after him, arms spread out in a gesture of both surrender and confusion over his actions; although he wisely decided against going as far as chasing after his irritated guardian.

Legolas made no move to answer as he made his way through the camp so, defeated, Aragorn let his arms drop to his sides and slouched over to where Kinnale and the Rangers had set up their things to rest for the night. Before joining them around the newly lit fire, Aragorn cast a last expressive glance back to the retreating Elf then sat himself down with a deep sigh of resignation.

"What did you say this time?" Janor drawled in amusement.

"Nothing." All the Men around the fire immediately threw disbelieving looks his way, their lips quirking into smiles of knowing. At their reactions, Aragorn threw his hands up in the air. "Honestly, I didn't say anything wrong."

"I can't believe that," Ciaran grinned over at him.

"What?"

"No…Sorry. Nothing."

Casting another glance in the direction that Legolas had taken, even though the Elf was by now long out of his range of sight, Aragorn grumbled, "You know what Legolas is like lately. I can't seem to do anything right by him."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, lad. He'll be back soon. Apologise and move on," Kinnale advised dismissively, as he always did whenever Aragorn fell into a sulk over a minor argument with his guardian, which was happening more and more frequently now that the Elf was the one injured.

"Why is that always your advice when it comes to Legolas?" Aragorn demanded bluntly of his friend.

Kinnale shrugged. "Because it always works."

"Right, and in the meantime he's out there all on his own."

"On his own? There are a couple of hundred people spread all about the place. He is perfectly safe."

"You don't know that."

"Stop worrying," Kinnale told him, patting the boy on the back.

"I can't stop worrying, Kinnale. Legolas is not well."

"Maybe not but he is well enough right now to be able to walk at least a little way without supervision. As he has just proven."

"How would you know? Are you a healer?" Aragorn snapped irritably towards the Ranger.

With great patience, born from years of dealing with his own temperamental son, Kinnale answered, "No. But common sense dictates that Legolas would not push himself beyond his limits."

"Yes, well obviously you don't know Legolas all that well, do you?" the young man grumbled, frowning grumpily into the flames.

"Hey! I appreciate that you are concerned for your guardian and given all that has occurred that is understandable, admirable even, but it is no one's fault here so you should stop losing your temper with all of us!"

His anger flaring at the harsh telling off he had just received from his senior in front of the other Rangers, Aragorn yelled out the thing that had been niggling at the front of his mind for weeks now, unwilling to leave his thoughts no matter how hard he tried to banish it, "No. It is your fault!" All Men within hearing distance turned to stare at him at the loud, disrespectful exclamation towards the leader of the Rangers. Kinnale's eyes widened in shock but Aragorn continued on before the commander could intercede for the boy's own good. "And my fault too. If we hadn't all ostracised him, made him feel so cruelly unwelcome amongst us then we might have been able to help him before things got so bad and he ended up languishing in agony all on his own."

"Aragorn…"

"Don't you see that this is all my fault?" Aragorn yelled, interrupting the man's placating words that he suspected were coming.

"Your fault?"

"Not once has he ever abandoned me, in spite of all the danger I pose to him, no matter how many stupid, thoughtless words I speak to him. And the one time he does something I don't like, I push him away. And now look where we are. He's…"

Kinnale got to his feet and Aragorn realised that he too had at some point risen from his spot on the ground. The Ranger took Aragorn's arm as if worried that the younger man might attempt to flee before he had a chance to say his own piece in response.

"Aragorn, listen to me now. Legolas is going to be fine. Already he is recovering well. And, given some time, I have no doubt that your guardian will be once more back to his usual dour self." The young man opened his mouth to protest but, uncertain that another insult might well be resting on the tip of his tongue, Kinnale stopped him before so much as a syllable escaped him. "Now, Aragorn, I know that you are tired and I am going to ignore all that was just said and…"

Ripping his arm suddenly in anger from Kinnale's grasp, Aragorn glowered at the man. "You," the boy growled, pointing his finger accusingly at an astonished Kinnale, "have no right to speak to me in that way. I am your king."

"Indeed?"

"Yes."

Kinnale nodded, his face thunderous as he stared unflinchingly down at the younger man.

"Well then, Your Majesty," Kinnale began through gritted teeth, "in that case, might I respectfully request that you cease this behaviour before you lose all the friends you now have."

Once again, Aragorn went to speak but this time Kinnale turned his back on him, unwilling to let this go any further. It did not please the young king in the least and he slammed his hand down on the commander's shoulder to draw him back. It was not a sensible move.

Over the months they had been travelling together, Aragorn had forgotten just how huge in stature the Ranger was. Towering above him, face a mask of sheer anger, eyes flashing dangerously, Kinnale grabbed the young man's wrist in such a tight hold that Aragorn let out a yelp of surprise and pain and instinctively tried to wrench himself free. But it was no use. Kinnale was much too strong.

"Let me go," Aragorn wailed, contorting his body at an odd angle in a fruitless attempt to wrench his arm free, when Kinnale did not loosen his grip at all.

"Kinnale," Janor warned, getting up from his place by the fire, concerned by his commander's behaviour, because technically Aragorn was correct – he was their king.

"All I would ask for, my young king, is a little humility and an apology from you. Not too much to want I don't think."

"I'm sorry," Aragorn cried as a stabbing pain started to shoot up his arm and he ceased his movement for fear of making it worse.

"Was that apology sincere?"

"Yes." Kinnale's hand tightened on Aragorn's wrist and the boy mewled in pain, bending his knees so that he was almost knelt on the ground. "Yes, it was! I promise. Please let me go. Please."

For a moment longer Kinnale maintained his grip, searching Aragorn's eyes for signs of deceit. "Very well." Finally, he released the young man and Aragorn fell to the ground in relief. "Get some sleep now."

Rather than protesting, Aragorn regained his feet then slinked away, cradling his hurting hand against his chest.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" Janor demanded once the commander had returned to his place next to the fire.

"You just injured your future monarch," one of the twins, Veron, told him although his voice was surprisingly light-hearted. Apparently, the warrior had found the whole exchange rather amusing as he smirked approvingly at Kinnale from across the campfire.

"Thank you," the commander ground out sarcastically.

Shaking his head and still smiling, Veron added, "Legolas is not going to be happy with you."

Kinnale looked up at the big man in surprise then groaned. He had not given any thought to Aragorn's guardian.

**OIOI**

Kinnale was startled awake by strong hands literally dragging him up by the front of his shirt. Dazed from being woken so abruptly, the Ranger had little time to react to what was happening to him. He saw a flash of dull gold and then he was on his back on the ground, this time with pain blooming across his face and the taste of sharp copper in his mouth. Choking on a cough, Kinnale properly opened his eyes at last to find Legolas pinning him to the ground. One strong hand was holding him down, a remarkable show of strength from the still injured Elf. Shaking his head to clear away the dizziness brought on by the blow, Kinnale took Legolas' wrist in his grip, applying just as much pressure as he'd used earlier that evening on Aragorn. Legolas, however, did not so much as flinch at the contact.

"Legolas," Kinnale choked through a mouthful of blood.

Blue eyes, dark in the minimal illumination provided by the fire, flashed in anger. He did not let the man up even though fear was evident on that rugged face.

Growling in a low voice so as not to alert any other as to what he was saying, Legolas leaned close to Kinnale and warned, "If you_ ever_ lay a hand on my ward again, I'll kill you." There was no lie, no exaggeration in Legolas' voice as he spoke these words, low and threatening. Only truth. "Do you understand me, _Ranger_?"

Kinnale nodded, eyes wide as he stared up at the Elf. "Yes."

For a long, tense moment, Legolas stared unflinchingly into the eyes of the Human commander until Kinnale began to squirm uncomfortably under his attentions. Finally, Legolas nodded curtly, confident that he had gotten his message across effectively enough. He loosened his hold on the Ranger but looked down pointedly at Kinnale's hand, which was still wrapped instinctively around the Elf's thin wrist. Upon seeing his stern glare, Kinnale hastily released the Elf's arm and Legolas finally let him up, although offered the man no help to regain his feet.

As Legolas left him, the Rangers and Rohirrim who had been awoken by the commotion, stood aside to let the Elf pass. None stepped forward to help Kinnale up, all were too stunned to make any move at all. Kinnale, meanwhile, struggled to regain his feet, wiping blood from his lip, pride wounded more than he was hurt physically.

Through the stunned silence, a confident voice jested, "I told you he would be annoyed."

Glaring in the direction of the tall man and his twin, Kinnale ground out, "Thank you, Veron."

Legolas was fuming. He knew he had been wrong to threaten the Ranger as he had, to be so rough with one of the few men he called 'friend'. He'd always been fond of Kinnale ever since they had first met on Weathertop. He had thought him level-headed and sensible and caring right from the beginning. But when he had returned from his cooling off walk around the camp and found his ward miserably cradling his bruised arm on the outskirts of the Ranger's camp and Aragorn had told him in detail of what had occurred between him and the commander, he'd immediately lost his temper. Someone he trusted had hurt his ward and that he could not abide.

The walk back to where Aragorn was waiting for him, still apart from the other Men, cooled Legolas' anger somewhat and he felt regret beginning to leech through him. Feeling worn out from the additional exertion of his attack, he was immensely grateful when he reached their small fire.

Aragorn looked up expectantly when his mentor came into view. No marks visibly marred Legolas and he started to think that perhaps the Elf had settled for merely vocalising his annoyance rather than carrying out his impulsive threat to make the Ranger sorely regret so severely disciplining his ward.

"Legolas?" the boy asked when Legolas sat down without so much as a word. Smiling awkwardly, Aragorn asked partially in jest, "Does Kinnale still draw breath or did you really make good on your threat?"

Cold blue eyes glared at the young man from across the fire and despite the heat provided by the flames, Aragorn shuddered.

"It was…a joke," Aragorn justified lamely.

Still Legolas glared, unflinching. He knew fully well that Aragorn found that look almost impossible to endure. And as always, the boy bowed his head in shame.

A small bow of shame was not satisfactory in this case, however. Legolas wanted Aragorn to feel genuine remorse. Of course, when Legolas had asked what had precipitated Kinnale's reaction, Aragorn had been truthful with his severe guardian and told Legolas of his anger-fuelled words to the Ranger. At the time, the Elf prince had been so infuriated with Kinnale that he hadn't taken the time to punish his ward for his actions and words.

"So, that the most respectful way you know how to treat the Commander of the Rangers, is it?"

"I…No, of course not."

"Then do you want to explain yourself?"

Aragorn cast his eyes back down to the ground. "I…don't know," he mumbled under his breath, cheeks burning with shame and embarrassment.

"Excuse me?" Legolas snapped. "Speak up," he barked in anger.

"I said I don't know."

"And yet it seems you had plenty to say earlier this evening."

"I just…lost my temper."

Legolas sighed, rubbing at his eyes wearily. Whenever he came across a situation like this with his unpredictable young charge, Legolas tried to think upon what his father, King Thranduil, would say to him when he disappointed his often disapproving father. Unfortunately, the memories hurt too much to focus on; even those awkward moments between stern father and always eager to please son in Legolas' mind now felt immensely precious. Besides, he didn't think he could be quite as stern with Aragorn as Thranduil had been with him during his youth. It wasn't in his nature – as Thranduil had often cautioned him.

Nevertheless, years of pain and desperation had roughened his outlook somewhat and he wasn't going to gloss over the truth to spare his ward.

"And you think you behaved appropriately for a soon-to-be king?" the Elf demanded to know.

"Of course not."

"Yet you spoke to Kinnale with no respect. You used your title to threaten and intimidate. That is not kingly behaviour, Aragorn."

"I know that."

"Really? Then do you care to explain yourself?"

Getting annoyed again, Aragorn snapped, "I've already told you that I can't."

Legolas sighed, turning his eyes away from his ward and instead looking into the crackling flames of their small fire. He was really too tired for this. After a full day of travelling, he was thoroughly exhausted and the confrontation with the strong Kinnale, no matter how brief it had been, had inflamed the pain in his side, bringing it to the point where it was starting to get unbearable again.

After a moment, Aragorn broke the tense silence with a small voice. "I'm sorry, Legolas."

"It is not me you ought to be apologising to."

"Kinnale?" At Legolas' sharp nod of confirmation, Aragorn groaned. "Really?"

"Yes, really."

"You don't think that might be a show of weakness on my part?"

"No. It is a mark of respect for your elder; something you would do well to learn."

"And what about you?" Aragorn asked, a hint of amusement now creeping into his tone.

"What about me?"

"You roughed up Kinnale. Don't you think you should apologise as well?"

"I did not rough up Kinnale," Legolas corrected him quickly.

"Oh? Then what did you do?"

Legolas considered his answer for a moment and then in a level, cautious voice, said, "I…very politely reminded him that the punishment of my ward is mine alone to dish out."

"Politely?"

Sighing heavily, realising that Aragorn was never going to believe his claims of a reasonable exchange with the Ranger, Legolas snapped, "Fine, I too will speak with Kinnale in the morning." The boy smiled at him across the fire then nodded in almost mock seriousness. "For tonight though…I am going to sleep."

The Elf lowered his weary body to the ground, carefully disguising a moan of pain behind a feigned cough.

"Goodnight," Aragorn smiled to his guardian, cheery even though Legolas had not fooled him one bit. "I really am sorry, Legolas. I let my anger cloud my judgement. I will apologise to Kinnale tomorrow as well."

Without opening his eyes, Legolas mumbled, "Too right you will."

"Sleep well." For a while after his guardian had fallen asleep, Aragorn sat up, idly prodding at the fire with a stick as he pondered his earlier actions. They had been mainly born of concern for Legolas – not that he would ever tell the Elf that. In truth, he was envious of the Ranger's ability to be so completely nonchalant about everything. Kinnale did not worry for Legolas, did not fear the path they were now treading nor their destination. Nothing seemed to trouble the man and Aragorn wished that he could be the same way.

He worried constantly. He worried at his guardian pushing himself too far too soon after being hurt, he worried that danger might lie ahead, he worried for the innocents who travelled alongside the warriors, he worried for those still left behind in Bree.

Individually, perhaps these concerns would have been easy to bear. Combined, they were overwhelming at times. On top of all that was the nagging self-doubt that still constantly gnawed at his mind and heart. He may have easily thrown this title of king at Kinnale that evening but its meaning still weighed heavily on him. Every day he came closer to his eventual destiny. He was being dragged inexorably towards that which he feared the most of all and there was none other among his companions – not even Legolas – who could understand that.

Brooding upon the matter, however, was not going to make it go away nor was it going to bring him any peace. So, Aragorn dragged his blanket from his bag and wrapped it around himself and closed his eyes to try to sleep before the dawn brought inevitable humiliation along with it.

**OIOI**

The vast chamber in the heart of the Tower of Orthanc stood oddly silent. Its high, dark walls, obsidian black, shone with orange torchlight, although at the moment there was no one present to appreciate the flickering light.

Normally, the tower would be bustling with activity but at present it had fallen quiet. It was not often that silence descended so completely over the great engine of war. But it was proving to be a tense time, as Orthanc's master's favour with the allied Mordor had notably dissipated somewhat in recent weeks. The Lord of Isengard, the turn-coat Wizard Saruman had, for the past four days, been holed up in his private chambers, vowing not to emerge until he had come up with an answer for the quandary posed by the Dark Lord Sauron. For those days, he had sat in silent meditation and in his absence, the work of Isengard had all but ground to a halt.

However, the relative peace of the Black Tower was shattered on the eve of the fifth day of contemplative quiet. Nine huge black horses came upon the home of Saruman, eyes glowing faintly red in the twilight as they galloped, pounding without resistance through the invisible ringed wall of protection, entirely untouched by the dark magic of the Istar. They did not slow as they passed the White Wizard's curious contraptions of war, scattered around the pits from which had been created the Uruk-hai. The Nine had no interest in such earthly creations, cruelly inventive and advantageous to their master's cause though they may have been. This night their sights were set on one thing only and it was not wood and stone.

Bringing their fearsome, other-worldly steeds to a skidding halt on the gravel before the tall steps leading into the tower, the robed Wraiths dismounted with surprising grace given their size.

They did not pause. They ascended the steps like ghosts, gliding up to the high doors, which opened for them as if they could command the cold stone by sheer force of will.

Led by the Witchking himself, the Wraiths swept through Orthanc's grand entrance hall, knowing where they had to go already. They could sense their destination and would not be deviated from their mission.

Upon feeling their presence, a multitude of creatures were drawn out. Orcs, Uruk-hai, Goblins, lowly Human servants, all attracted to the evil emanating from the most powerful servants of the Shadow as a moth might be attracted to a flame. Unlike the insects of the night, however, the subservient creatures of the Darkness were still deeply afraid of the objects of their curiosity. Intense as it was, the Darkness inside these Wraiths scared the lesser servants and as quickly as they came, they shrank back away, back into the Shadows where they felt most at home.

For their part, the Nazgul ignored this attention. Orcs and their twisted brethren were not their concern either. They had come for something far more important.

Saruman felt the presence of the Shadow long before a startled Orc servant banged on the door to inform him of the coming of the Nazgul to Orthanc. Jumping from his seat, he strode to the door in an urgent flurry of fine white robes, dragging it open to find his Orc messenger bowed so low to the floor that its nose nearly touched the cold flagstone. Before him stood the Nine, an impressive sight to the uninitiated. Flanked by eight heavily robed Wraiths, the Witchking himself stared down at him, intimidating in his mere presence.

The Wizard took his time to look at each, seeing more than any other being in Isengard could see upon inspecting the Shadows. And the Nine allowed the scrutiny, standing still as he stared. It was a show of strength. Other, lesser beings might have quailed under the black, listless stare of the seemingly unflappable dark Wizard. But the Wraiths stood unafraid. And that fact riled Saruman greatly.

Breaking his gaze away from the Nine, Saruman smiled thinly at the, almost as if in grim welcome.

Taking a bold step forwards, giving his cowering slave a hard kick to remove him as he passed, the White Wizard of the Tower of black stone demanded in the firmest voice he could muster, "Why have you come, Cursed Ones?"

For a long moment, the creatures did not speak, as if they were trying to intimidate the Wizard simply with their silence. But then, growing tired of that small diversion, the Witchking spoke in a low hiss, "We have been sent."

Resisting the urge to sigh at the meaningless remark – they had no will of their own, of course they had been sent – Saruman asked, "Sent by whom?"

"By the one we all serve."

Understanding had already dawned on Saruman, for the Nine, he knew, would not be ordered on a whim. "And why would Sauron send you to me?" He smirked slightly and added, "Does he not think I have an adequate number of servants here at my disposal and seeks to provide me with nine more?"

Nine hooded heads were raised in unison at the insinuation that they would ever be slaves of the lesser being and Saruman could tell that they were offended – he took great pleasure in that. However, they were not here to exchange petty words with the Istar.

"We have come because the Dark Lord is displeased," the Witchking spoke in his usual flat tone.

"Displeased?" Saruman feigned shock as he began to edge past them. "With me?"

"Yes." An apparently empty hood followed the Wizard's slow progress past the Nine.

"I see. And what I have done to so displease the implacable one?" Saruman strode down the corridor, knowing the Wraiths would follow; like trained dogs, he thought in amusement.

"Rohan is unsettled," the Witchking said from directly behind the Wizard even though Saruman had not heard a single footstep on the pale flagstones.

"Yes. That is unfortunate indeed, although I am unclear as to what it has to do with me."

"The lands of Rohan are under your purview, Wizard."

Saruman nodded shortly, stepping into the main chamber of Orthanc and going to sit in his high-backed, elaborately decorated chair – a throne some might say – to gaze down at his unwelcome guests. "They are."

"And yet the fortress of the Deep has been taken."

The grey-bearded Wizard looked up sharply at this, pale blue eyes widening in shock. The Nine remained completely unruffled stood before him as he let this news sink in. "Taken? Impossible."

"And yet the Dark Lord has seen it."

"He has seen wrongly," Saruman told the Wraith coolly. Never would such an oversight occur in lands controlled by the White Wizard. "That fortress is impenetrable and the people of Rohan are a weak, subdued race scratching out a living from their desolate lands. The Deep cannot be taken by any mortal."

"It has been so, Wizard. Explain this."

Thinking quickly, a feat difficult under the almost psychic pressure applied by the Nazgul, Saruman ground out reasonably, "How can I explain what I do not know?"

"It is your not knowing that you must explain."

Standing abruptly from his throne, Saruman paced back to the window in another flurry of white robes then after taking a beat to look out onto the grey landscape paced back again. "Things have been quiet in Rohan for decades. I could not possibly have predicted…"

"The Deep has been taken," the Witchking repeated his accusation calmly. It was not interested in excuses.

"I heard you the first time," ground out the increasingly nervous Istar to cover just how terrified of these creatures he was.

Surely it could not be true. The Dark Lord must have fallen foul of some dark trickery. That was certainly a more plausible explanation than him, the all-powerful Wizard, missing such a happening in his own lands. And yet the Nine were here on his doorstep demanding an explanation for his wrong-doings. They would not leave the Black Lands and Sauron's guard without good reason.

Saruman twitched at the thought of rebellion in Rohan and for such an uprising to have gone entirely unnoticed by his lands in the closely neighbouring Isengard. He may have been in league with the Shadow, lured to Sauron's allegiance with the promise of power and wealth beyond his wildest imaginings, but the Dark Lord's mood was capricious at best and he was not hesitant in removing those allies who disappointed him, no matter how powerful they may have been in their own right.

"Hm. Helm's Deep. The ancient fortress of the Rohirrim. May I ask how it was taken?" the Wizard mused as nonchalantly as he could manage, pouring himself a glass of potent red wine with what he thought to be an admirably steady hand given his nerves.

The Witchking lowered his hooded head – a quirk of amusement. "That should be within your knowledge, Wizard."

"And yet it is not. Tell me, are the Nine so poorly informed?"

Lifting its chin at the insult, the Witchking answered testily, "Our spies are not so ineffectual. The Orcs who survived the assault say that a child was at the heart of the attack."

"Ah, yes. The supposed King," Saruman drawled, sipping at his goblet of wine in the vain hope that it might soothe him. Of course he had heard of the descendant of Isildur. All those allied to the Shadow had heard. That the most hated of the Shadow's enemies had been right under his nose the whole time and yet had not been seen or captured made Saruman want to squirm. So set on doing right by the Dark Lord had he been that he had not taken note of the goings-on in the dormant land belonging to the remaining dregs of the meddlesome Horselords. Infuriating and embarrassing in equal measure. He was beginning to understand Sauron's hatred of the Human king.

"Yes. Led by the Elf born of Mirkwood."

"Mirkwood. Cursed place." Saruman glanced to the faded map pinned to his wall, more specifically to the black mass of trees that made up the now desolate lands of Mirkwood. He sighed then and looked back to the unmoving creatures stood solemnly with infinite patience before him. "Well, I suppose that what is done is done. Surely the loss of the Deep is of no terrible significance to our Lord."

"No. And yet he is grieved."

"Why? I can create more servants in the depths of Isengard if he requires and take back the Deep for him. It is no trouble. Little has been lost in that respect."

"Much has been lost. To lose any more ground to the boy or his guardian is unacceptable."

"Of course," Saruman quickly changed direction to align himself with the Dark Lord's own views. Best to remain on Sauron's good side in these uncertain and increasingly turbulent times. He knew for certain that the Wraiths would deliver a full and explicit report of his reactions. Best stay on the side of safety. Saruman the White was no fool. "Yes, of course. But what should be done to rectify the situation?" The Wraith shifted its head to the side in silent inquiry. "That is why you have come, is it not?"

"Your fate is of no consequence to us."

Sighing heavily, Saruman laid his goblet down on the table. He could well believe that. "Well, then, why are you here? Surely you did not come all this way simply to gloat at my oversights."

"No. The Deep must be retaken."

"Turning out a handful of rebels will pose no difficulty to the might of Isengard."

"Might will not be necessary. The fortress has since been abandoned."

Getting tired of this seemingly pointless visit, Saruman stood up in one sharp movement, ignoring the fact that all nine Wraiths towered over him menacingly, and he asked, "Then I ask again: What is the purpose of your coming?"

The Witchking stood silent and still for a long moment, enjoying the Wizard's squirming at the delay. The he spoke slowly, drawing out the torture for as long as possible even though Saruman kept up the pretence of indifference. "We came to remind you, old man, that neglect of the Dark Lord's interests will not be tolerated."

"I am no old man," Saruman ground out, stepping towards the Witchking, trying to appear as threatening as he possibly could in this cursed age-ravaged body. "And you would do well to remember that, Cursed One."

The threat was useless; all present in the room knew that very well. Saruman may have been head of the Order of the Istari and Lord of Isengard, powerful in his own right, but in no way was he any match for the Sorcerer of Angmar. His magic was dwarfed by that of the Wraiths. But he also knew that he still had some use to the Dark Lord or he would not still be alive. The Nazgul had not the patience to toy with their prey. That gave him some small shred of power. And he wasn't easily going to let go of that advantage.

Typically untroubled, the Witchking continued, "You have become complacent, old man."

Scowling at the Wraiths, Saruman growled, "You are no longer welcome here."

"We are servants of the Shadow. We go where we choose."

"Not here. Leave and do not return." The command may have been ultimately futile, the Wraiths would indeed come and go as they pleased, such was their power, but it made Saruman feel marginally better to be able to exert some kind of authority over the Nine. The land of Isengard had been given to him by Sauron as a gift for his loyalty and he was confident enough that the Dark Lord had not authorised the Nazgul to now take it from him. Saruman's allegiance cost little. A little ego boost was all that was ever required; small price indeed. He was certain that the Dark Lord of Mordor would not threaten this particular alliance. They were more partners in actuality; Saruman would have agreed to no less. And Sauron needed him.

He smiled then at the Nine, who stood unmoving before him, defiant as ever. "What has happened will never be allowed to occur again, you have my assurance."

"Do not disappoint again, old man," the Witchking warned in a growl.

The use of the hated words 'old man' made Saruman twitch in annoyance. He was no mere man – although old did seem an apt description for the body he had been burdened with on this Middle Earth. He had indeed lived for millennia and those wretched Blessed Ones had deigned to send him to Arda in the form of an ancient, white-haired old human. But he was not a man; he was a Wizard, endowed with great power and now second only to the Master of All himself.

However, this time he chose to hold his tongue, wanting only for the Wraiths of Shadow to leave his home. So, he smiled blandly at them and simply nodded.

"All will be well. You can tell your master that Rohan will be closely observed from now on."

"I will be sure to do so." The Nazgul stood taller, then the eight who stood behind the Witchking turned slowly as one then began to file out. However, the Witchking remained. "I will return. When you fail again, I shall return."

Cocking a smile, Saruman assured, "I will not fail my Lord again, Cursed One."

The Witchking breathed a rattling sigh of disappointment. "Pity," the creature grumbled beneath its vast hood. "I would so enjoy ending your wretched life, old man."

Moving closer still to the tall black being, Saruman retorted, "You are the wretched one. Return to your tower of shadow and darken my door no longer."

"Do not think you can so easily dismiss me, Sorcerer."

Once again, Saruman chose not to respond. In spite of the fact that he was closely allied to the Dark Lord Sauron himself, the Wizard was also sensible of the dark powers of the beasts stood before him. It would probably be best not to get on their bad side if he could at all help it.

"Go now." Saruman boldly turned his back on the remaining Wraith, twisting the delicate glass around in his fingers as he stared out of the tall window of his tower.

He didn't hear the creature go or feel it even, yet when he turned around he found himself alone once again, the great doors shut tightly as if nothing had ever darkened his halls. In spite of his bravado before the wretched servants of Shadow, their visit had left him shaken and now in their absence he felt a great weight lifted from his mind. It felt almost as if a fog had descended over the Tower of Orthanc at the coming of the Nine and that it had lifted with their leaving and Saruman found his mind suddenly mulling over all that had been said.

Rohan. Those damned peasants were getting above themselves and it would not do.

In truth, Saruman had long ago grown tired of the people of Rohan. At the time, there had been better things to do than set his newly created Uruk-hai on them to exterminate them completely. Certainly he had worked to keep them in line. Killing a few here and there, bringing them back to Orthanc for questioning and experimentation. It had kept them cowed and impassive – as Men should be. And all this time they had been almost pathetically inactive. Yes, there had still been the odd incident – Uruk patrols reporting attacks being made upon them by the 'straw-heads' as the blonde-haired men of Rohan had been termed, but nothing of any great concern.

Yet now, after so many years lying dormant, the people of Rohan seemed to be intent on causing trouble. And Sauron was angry. Not at the Rohirrim, but at his ally. Saruman could not allow that.

Settled upon his plan now, he strode out through the doors and made his way down the great tower into its very bowels. As he descended it grew darker, the tunnels, hastily constructed by the Orcs for the purpose of privacy and darkness at the very start of his heinous experiments, became narrower. Normally, he would not deign to venture down here amongst the noise and stench, but today he needed to meet with his servants.

"My master," a voice sneered as he approached the pit that had been dug deep into the earth at the very lowest point of Orthanc. The foul creature bowed awkwardly. It rarely saw its master and certainly had never seen the Wizard down here in the domain of the monsters. "What can I do for my master?"

Distastefully lowering the white handkerchief from where he had had it pressed against his delicate nose to ward off the reek of the pits, Saruman said in a low voice, "Are they ready?"

"Ready, they are, my master," the snivelling Orc answered with a foul grin.

"Excellent."

With great care, Saruman peered over the edge of the deep pit and was immediately met by the most vicious growling he had ever heard. He drew back quickly even though he knew that the beasts below could not reach him. Blood-thirsty creatures, born, as so many other horrors had been created, in the depths of Orthanc; a cross between the Wargs and terrible wolves from the woods of Fangorn Forest, they would be more than a match for weak Rohan steel.

"Good. Very good," he smiled down into the pit of snarling teeth and razor-sharp claws.

The men of Rohan would very soon regret their new alliance, would regret making a fool of the White Wizard.

**To Be Continued…**


	44. The Fates

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 44 – The Fates**

"Well, you are healing up satisfactorily," the healer informed his reluctant patient, lowering Legolas' shirt back down once he had finished his inspection.

"As I told you, Valon. Perhaps next time you could heed my assurances rather than insisting on performing this ridiculous ritual every day," Legolas grumbled as he awkwardly tucked his shirt into the top of his trousers, adjusting the ill-fitting belt to ensure that they were secure again.

"And in fine spirits as usual," Valon grinned as he stood, taking a moment to dust down his own trousers with his hands before extending a hand to help Legolas to his feet.

"Thank you."

"Now, you must take the opportunity when we pause for the night to actually get some rest. Not prowl around the campsite all night waiting for dawn. All this travelling after such an illness is bound to be tiring and it will not do to exhaust yourself."

"I am not exhausting myself," Legolas told the healer somewhat curtly as he climbed up to his feet with unusual care, although pointedly rejecting the healer's helping hand, and unfortunately betraying the pain that still lingered within him. "I can handle walking. And I do not prowl."

"That I do not doubt. But nevertheless, you must sleep, Legolas, or you will not recover."

Glancing around, mindful of the others nearby who may have been listening to this conversation despite the healer taking the time to seek out privacy so that he could examine the proud, stubborn Elf, Legolas nevertheless said softly, "Please lower your voice." He did not particularly want the men of Bree and Rohan knowing all about his business.

"My apologies. But my advice still stands."

"Right," Legolas said dismissively, already going to walk away, buttoning up the top buttons of his shirt as he went.

However, Valon grabbed the Elf's arm, effectively preventing him from leaving, at least not without causing quite a scene, which he very well knew Legolas was trying hard to avoid. Blue eyes shot immediately to hand that dared grip him in such a manner, obviously startled by the unexpected action. Not many amongst the Men would dare handle the Elf in such a way, preferring to give the unpredictable creature his space; although whether it was through respect or fear was still unclear, but Legolas had never questioned the great fortune either way.

"Unhand me, please." The request was polite enough but the tone low and dangerous.

Boldly refusing to do as commanded, Valon in fact tightened his grip and moved closer to the Elf, whispering, "Look, if you don't want to take care of yourself for your own benefit, then think of Aragorn. The boy worries for you almost constantly; it is plain to see on his face."

Damn, the physician was smart. Using his own ward; the thing he cared about more than anything in this world, against him. Yes, this healer was very clever, Legolas decided with a certain amount of respect growing beneath his outward indignation. For he too had seen the honest concern on his ward's face, shining in his eyes, even when, now that a week had passed on the road leading away from Edoras, Aragorn no longer pestered him constantly. It had been easy, Legolas had found, to slip back into his old ways without the boy's annoyingly persistent nagging to remind him. Guilt washed over him. He was supposed to be making life easier for Aragorn, not more difficult.

"Now, do you promise to do as you're told?" Valon asked, realising he'd gotten through, on some level at least, to the stubborn Elf.

Swallowing thickly around the lump that had become lodged in his throat, Legolas nodded, adding a quiet, "Yes," for reiteration.

"Alright then." The healer gently released Legolas' arm then patted him on the shoulder to show no hard feelings for the firmness of his approach. "Go get something to eat then go to sleep. You will feel better for it, believe me."

Again Legolas nodded, feeling rather like a naughty Elfling after a scalding for doing wrong. "Thank you," he politely said to Valon as he stepped past the kindly man to return to where he and Aragorn were staying the night on the edge of the camp. They spent most of their time now apart from the Men as Legolas still seemed to be out of favour with many of them; he had not yet been fully forgiven for his deceit.

"How did it go?" Aragorn asked eagerly at his appearance, as he always did when Legolas returned from his daily examination by Valon.

Legolas looked up sharply at the sound of the boy's overly cheerful voice enquiring after him and saw in the dimming daylight the eagerness plainly on his ward's face. For some reason, Legolas found his throat constricting again as the shame and guilt washed over him. He knew why he felt this way, although it hurt to admit it. He was a disappointment to his trusting young ward and that was not how it was supposed to be. Aragorn had made no pledge to his father on his deathbed to care for the Elf who was named his guardian, he had never promised to look after Legolas until the end of his cursed days here on Middle Earth. And yet here Aragorn was, burdened, along with so many other things far bigger than a worn out, exiled, useless prince, with a guardian who had effectively ceased to be.

"Legolas?" Aragorn asked with a frown, laying his bowl of thin broth down on the ground by his feet, even more concerned by his mentor's distant silence. Usually that meant something was wrong. Generally, when he asked his guardian how his time with the healer had gone, Legolas would snap out a quick, rough reassurance and they would get on with their night, both ignoring the tension the question always brought out in each other. Neither would normally dare to mention it again. This silence in response to a probing question from his ward was uncharacteristic for the Elf. "Is something wrong?"

Shaking his head slightly in an action designed to clear his thoughts, Legolas offered the man a smile that felt so horribly shaky that it couldn't have looked any good and answered, "No, everything went fine."

"What did Valon say?" Worry, unconcealed, shone in light grey eyes and Aragorn stood slowly from his place as if bracing himself for any bad news the Elf had to bear. "You do not look yourself tonight."

Finally realising that he was actually adding to Aragorn's anxiety by acting so blatantly out of the ordinary, Legolas cleared his throat and said more clearly, "Valon said nothing other than I am healing well. Everything is good."

Aragorn looked the Elf up and down, scrutinising his appearance to note any differences since the last time he had laid eyes on him. "You do not seem well to me, Legolas. Valon didn't say anything…bad, did he?"

"No, nothing bad at all. I'm just fine, Aragorn, I promise." Legolas hoped that the reassurance sounded more convincing to Aragorn's ears than it did to his own.

Unfortunately, it did not and Aragorn remained stubbornly unconvinced. However, not wanting to push Legolas further for answers, he slowly nodded his head then asked cheerfully, "Do you want some broth? It's a Rohan recipe and it tastes far better than anything clobbered together by the Rangers."

Legolas opened his mouth to reject the offer but, recalling the concern in Aragorn's eyes moments before, changed his mind and instead answered, "Yes. Why not try some Rohan food for a change?"

His face lighting up at the unexpected turn of events, Aragorn took Legolas' arm and guided him to sit by the fire. "You sit down and watch the fire and I'll go get you a bowl."

Doing as he was told, Legolas lowered himself carefully to the ground, mumbling, "Best say that it's for you. If they know it's for me they may very well season it with dirt."

As he left, Aragorn shot his guardian a wry smile, wondering briefly whether Legolas was really kidding or not. If only the Men would just put all this bad feeling behind them then things could return to what passed for normality now. Of course, it would help if Legolas would just apologise to them. But the Elf was tirelessly stubborn and Aragorn knew it wasn't going to happen.

When he returned, Aragorn found his mentor staring listlessly into the flames of their small fire. In his hand, the Elf held a thin twig and was absently peeling away the bark with his long fingers. He was obviously lost in his own thoughts as he didn't seem to notice Aragorn's approach. This in itself was unusual and Aragorn found himself considering again what was troubling his guardian.

"Legolas," Aragorn prompted, touching his fingers to the Elf's shoulder to rouse him.

Blinking rapidly, Legolas raised his head with a smile. "Thank you," he said, taking the small bowl of food – still a larger portion than would normally be dished out, he noticed – from his obliging ward. Under Aragorn's watchful gaze, Legolas slowly ate the contents of his bowl, every last scrap. He still had little appetite but he was grateful for the food offered and would never be purposefully wasteful when there was so little to go around anyway.

"I haven't seen you eat so much in months."

"Well, Valon told me that I must do so if I wish to regain my full strength."

"You're listening to the healer?"

"Of course." Legolas laid the bowl gently down on the floor between his feet and turned his eyes up towards the skies.

Aragorn chuckled softly after a moment. "Alright, what is wrong with you?"

The Elf actually laughed at this and his heart felt suddenly lighter in his chest than it had done in a long while. For now the ache that often resided in the pit of his stomach had faded almost into insignificance and the fierce pain in his side had eased to be properly bearable for the first time in weeks. He found himself becoming pleasantly drowsy in the heat of the fire.

Gentle hands laid a blanket over his shoulders but this time he did not protest at the attention.

"Why don't we join the Rangers tonight?" Aragorn suggested, glancing over to where the Men gathered around the larger fires, enjoying each other's company during their respite.

"You may go, Aragorn, but I fear that I may not be entirely welcomed."

Aragorn looked Legolas over again. Despite the fact that the Elf's countenance was more relaxed than it had been for months, he was still worryingly pale and this sudden change was disconcerting. "No, I won't leave you alone tonight," he decided, leaning back so that he was looking upwards at the sky.

"Why ever not? Valon has declared me to be perfectly well."

Making a dismissive gesture towards his guardian, Aragorn told him, "You do not seem yourself."

"In what way?"

"I don't know. I can't say for sure."

Legolas smiled thinly and looked to his ward. "You worry too much for me."

The young man averted his eyes back down to the ground, undecided as to whether or not speak what was on his mind. Of course, Legolas noticed this indecision immediately in his easy-to-read ward and said nothing, waiting patiently for the boy to get up the courage to speak or to bow out of the conversation entirely.

"Legolas?" Aragorn started, still not daring to raise his eyes to meet those of the Elf. "When you were…fevered, delusional during your illness, you…you spoke, said some things."

"What kind of things?" He remembered very little of his dreams during his time spent in the healing hall of Edoras and now he feared what he may have said in the throes of fever that he might regret speaking before his ward. What exactly had Aragorn heard?

Now that he had started though and seen his guardian's initial reaction, the boy seemed reluctant to continue, uncertain whether Legolas would allow such an invasion of his privacy. When he finally dared to look up, however, Legolas was watching him in calm anticipation, waiting for whatever his ward had to say to him. So, he started, "What does…'ada' mean?"

Legolas' eyes widened slightly. He could not recall ever using that word around Aragorn, although he supposed that it did actually make some sense that he had spoken it whilst he was unwell and in the throes of fever. He had dreamed of his lost home more often than not and he vividly recalled seeing his father's face as well.

"It means…It is Elvish for 'father'," Legolas answered after a while of thoughtful – or was it fearful? – silence. He found that he could not refuse to answer Aragorn's innocently meant question.

"Oh." Uncomfortable with the unexpected confession, Aragorn stared into the fire for a moment before returning his gaze to his guardian. Now that he had started, he figured he might as well continue with his compulsive questioning. He might find out something he hadn't known before about the person who was assigned his official guardian. Quietly, he asked, "Is that what you were seeing as you slept?"

"My home, my father. Quite natural, I would say."

"Yes, of course." Offering some small consolation, Aragorn told him, "I still dream of my father. I see him as he might now have been. My protector." He smiled softly at the pleasant thought of his father, not as he had last seen him – dying and scared – but rather as he was before he had first gotten sick and they had found themselves in the cruel clutches of the Orcs. It was of great comfort to him, even with his guardian ever-present to protect him. Legolas' face, however, was not tranquil, but rather held that familiar glimmer of pain and torment that Aragorn had seen countless times before. "What was your father like?" he asked all the same.

Immediately, Legolas opened his mouth to snap out a strict refusal to answer but then he thought better of it.

"My father was…strong. He was always strong, right up to the end. He was a great ruler; feared and loved in equal measure for he adored his people above all and fought hard for their safety and happiness." Legolas smiled softly at the memory of his father overseeing court, answering the questions and fears of his subjects, even though it burned hot in his chest. "And he was a kind father. The best one could hope for."

Aragorn smiled in turn at the praise, the gentle smile gracing the Elf's lips. "What was his name? I can't recall you ever telling me."

"Thranduil." The name sounded so strange coming from his mouth for the first time in decades and his chest burned so hot that he had to raise his hand in a futile attempt to cool it. Realising that he had closed his eyes involuntarily, Legolas opened them to find his ward watching him with open sadness. With difficulty but determination, Legolas pushed the dark thoughts to the very back of his mind where they resided buried carefully behind painstakingly constructed walls. He smiled then and said, "That does not matter anymore."

"Legolas…"

"Go join the Rangers, Aragorn," the Elf told him softly.

"What about you?"

Pulling the blanket tighter around himself, Legolas answered, "I'm going to sleep, so I will not even be able to miss your presence. Go on."

"Well, if you're sure."

"Absolutely sure."

Legolas knew that it was important that Aragorn continue to mingle with the Men. He would, after all, one day be required to command them so it was imperative that he not distance himself from them now, even if Legolas himself remained, at the moment, very much an outsider. Keeping Aragorn by his side was not viable and tonight when he felt like just being alone, was perfect.

Once Aragorn had left him, after several uncertain glances back as he left, Legolas slowly laid down on the ground close to the fire. He was tired, so following Valon's instructions wasn't going to be difficult.

**OIOI**

"What? What is it?" Aragorn exclaimed, gripping Legolas' arm so tightly that surely it must have hurt them both although neither seemed to feel it. "Legolas, answer me!"

Legolas, however, continued to stare blankly off into the distance, looking but not seeing. Water poured in heavy drops from the dark grey skies above, drenching Man and Elf entirely but Legolas paid the weather absolutely no heed.

"Aragorn? What is wrong?" Kinnale called above the roaring of the rain as he caught up with the pair. He peered at Legolas and took a step backwards in surprise. Legolas' face was so pale that it was not natural and his eyes were glazed as if he had descended into a living death where he stood. "What's the matter with him?"

Wild panic dancing in his eyes, Aragorn snapped emotionally, "I don't know! He just…stopped suddenly…" Looking into Legolas' blank face, Aragorn asked again of his guardian, "Legolas? Are you all right? Please answer me."

Still Legolas made no attempt to reply, as if he couldn't even hear his ward's desperate pleas. Doing the only thing he could think of, Aragorn put his hands on Legolas' shoulders and tried to shake him out of it. He was frightened – partly because Legolas was not responding but also because he had seen this state in his mentor before. On the road to Rohan, Legolas had frozen in the same manner, stared into space, both alert and distant at the same time. Aragorn tried to remember the details of that day but they were so fuzzy; so much had happened since then.

"Legolas, come back to me, please." It was so soft that only sensitive Elven ears could have picked up the words. Yet it still had no effect.

"Kinnale, help," Aragorn turned to plead to the clueless Ranger.

At a complete loss as to how exactly to help, Kinnale shrugged helplessly.

"Thank you," the younger man ground out in aggravation.

Just as he was looking desperately around for another source of aid, a strong hand fell upon his shoulder, making him literally jump in surprise.

"We have to go!" Legolas voice came above the sound of hammering rain, hoarse but urgent at the same time, as he gripped Aragorn's arm so tightly that it hurt. When the two men before him did not immediately follow his command, Legolas shouted at them and those surrounding him, for the group had all stopped whilst Aragorn had tried to rouse his guardian, "Now! Hide!"

The request was ridiculous. There were over two hundred of them – Men, woman and children – there was no way every one of them could actually hide. So, they stared in confusion at the Elf, who in turn stared back at them expectantly. In his continued confused state, he couldn't understand why they were just standing there, completely unresponsive to his warning.

"Legolas, are you well?" Kinnale asked of him as murmurs came from amongst the crowd.

"Kinnale, we have to go now."

The man shook his head, took a step closer and said softly to the prince, "No, my friend, we should take a moment." In a whisper, he added, "Clearly you are not well."

Reaching out to the man, Legolas grabbed his arms, fear shining in his eyes, and instead said, "We must move, get away from this place." His eyes darted all around then, although what he was searching for no one knew. "Something isn't right."

"Legolas, you are trembling," Kinnale exclaimed as he took the Elf's arm to steady him.

"Something is wrong," Legolas cried out, desperately wanting them to understand. His senses weren't just tingling at the disturbance in the air, they were positively screaming at him. Unfortunately, he seemed to have been struck inarticulate and could not communicate this to his friends.

"What?" Aragorn asked hurriedly, his eyes wide with panic. "Should I fetch a healer?"

"No." Legolas shook his head desperately. "That's not what I mean."

"Then what?" Helplessly, Legolas shook his head again, unable to explain. "Kinnale?"

Looking skywards, Legolas murmured to himself. "I don't know what."

Kinnale gazed into the Elf's upturned face for a moment and his features did nothing to ease his worry. Legolas' naturally pale face was now completely devoid of any healthy colour, a sheen of sweat coated his brow even as he trembled and his hands left unnaturally cold to the touch.

"Aragorn, run and fetch Valon, now," the Ranger commanded decisively.

Legolas looked back down at the man in confusion and said shakily, "I have no need of a healer."

The assurance had no effect on Aragorn whatsoever and he immediately dashed away through the crowds in search of the healer who had previously tended to Legolas' injuries. "Come and sit down for a minute," Kinnale told him, pulling him gently by the arm to the edge of the crowd.

Resisting only slightly, Legolas protested, "I do not need to sit. I am not ill."

"You are not well."

"I will be well once we're on the move once more."

"Whatever has you so spooked can wait while you sit quietly for five minutes and regain your breath," Kinnale insisted, helping Legolas to sit down on the grass. "Here, drink something."

A flask was thrust into his hand and Legolas raised it to his lips, hoping that it was simply water and not the Ranger's potent alcohol; that would do little to clear his confused mind. He paused in the simple action, however, when he found that he couldn't keep his hand steady. The flask shook horribly and Legolas raised his other hand before his face to confirm the tremor. It was perhaps not surprising that he trembled, he rationalised despite his shock. In the wake of – whatever had happened to him – it felt like his blood had frozen to ice crystals in his veins; his chest ached fiercely with the cold and his head pounded almost unbearably in the beat of a warning. Something evil had touched him and it still caressed his mind.

"Legolas? Look at me," Kinnale's voice demanded and Legolas blinked to find the man crouched before him, staring into his eyes with concern mixed with intent, one hand holding the base of the flask to keep it steady. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I am well."

"Move aside. Let me through." Valon the healer fought his way through the crowd that had congregated to see just what was going on with the strange Elf. When he reached Legolas, he knelt down before him. "How are you feeling?" he questioned without preamble.

"I am not entirely sure."

Not exactly the answer Aragorn had been hoping for as he stood anxiously awaiting the healer's diagnosis. To him, Legolas seemed almost unnaturally dazed and it had not improved in the time it had taken for him to track down Valon.

"Well, let's take a look at you."

A quick examination showed that, aside from the completely understandable inflammation around the wound still decorating the side of his abdomen, the Elf was physically in fair health; certainly he was no worse off than he had been when last examined. There was no sign of fever that may have indicated delirium as the cause of the Elf's strange turn.

And yet, despite him appearing to be in good health, Legolas remained obviously distant and distracted. Blue eyes gazed constantly upwards as though searching the skies for some indeterminate danger. This, in turn, also put the others on edge – Kinnale and Aragorn especially. With the Elf so unsettled, they too now felt the urge to flee from this place with all haste, as Legolas had advised. But they stood determined to wait until the healer had given the all-clear. Legolas' health would not be jeopardised for the sake of a case of the jitters.

"I can see no physical signs of ailment. No fever, which is a blessing," Valon declared, rocking back on his heels as he continued to crouch in front of Legolas. It frustrated him that he couldn't find a cause for this strange turn.

"Is that good or bad?" demanded Aragorn with unusual impatience.

"Good, surely," put in Kinnale. Whilst he'd sent the other Rangers and Rohirrim away to give Legolas some space to breathe, the commander had continued to loiter nearby.

"Good in the sense that his injury has not worsened but then there appears to be no explanation for this strange turn," Valon explained. He was a healer, trained in medicine and he liked how the lore of healing could explain any condition of the body with basic logic and knowledge. That he could not seem to determine what was causing these unusual symptoms in Legolas was frustrating. Perhaps, he reasoned to himself as he pressed his fingers to Legolas' wrist to check his pulse, this was some ailment confined to the race of Elves, in which case he had little hope of identifying and rectifying it. "Your heart rate is improving," the healer announced in relief when he noticed that Legolas' pulse was no longer pounding quite so wildly. Just moments before, the Elf's heart had been beating so fast that Valon feared it would do the Elf lasting damage should it continue for too long.

"I feel much improved," Legolas assured all those surrounding him. The fog was beginning to lift from his mind, leaving him able to think with more clarity and he realised that his friends, still gathered around him, all looked deeply concerned. "Truly."

Valon looked up at Kinnale and said, "I recommend pausing for a while."

At this, Legolas shook his head firmly, at the same time getting to his feet. "No, that is not necessary."

"Legolas, if Valon recommends it…" Aragorn started to reason but was cut off.

"I am quite well, Aragorn, as Valon himself has stated, and I am perfectly capable of walking."

Valon quickly put in, "I said that you seemed to be physically well, master Elf. But you are still worryingly pale. I would not want you to over-exert yourself."

"I will not."

With a sigh, Aragorn groaned, "Legolas, do not argue."

Suddenly, Legolas' face turned upwards again, panic glinting in his eyes. This was no false alarm though, no intangible feeling pricking his senses.

"Get down!" Legolas yelled in warning.

No one reacted to the initial shout, stunned into inaction by the sudden command. However, upon seeing this, Legolas grabbed Aragorn and forced him down to the ground, covering his ward's head and his own with his arms to shield them both before the threat reached them.

"Kinnale, get down!" Legolas shouted urgently when he dared a glance up to find that he and Aragorn were the only ones on the ground and everyone else was staring in confusion or fear; not of what might be coming but rather that the Elf had finally snapped.

From amongst the crowd, someone yelled, "Commander, look!" and pointed up to the clouded sky.

Everyone's eyes followed the direction the man was pointing in only to see a vast cloud, blacker than any others drifting in the bitterly polluted atmosphere and moving too fast to be anything so innocuous. It was mere moments before the source of this preternatural dark cloud became apparent and panic rippled through the watching people.

"Crebain! Get down!" Eomer yelled and similar shouts of warning went up amongst the men.

The Crebain of Dunland were big, black-feathered crows, spies of the Shadow and by no means unknown to the Rohirrim. Far from simply spying upon their enemies though, these creatures were also notoriously vicious if provoked. Aiming arrows at them did very little good because they generally moved in great flocks across the lands, making it impossible to fell every one of them. Usually, the Crebain flew over the villages of Rohan, taking special interest in Edoras where the Shadow knew the survivors of the purge dwelt.

In their current position, on a well-known route and completely exposed, it would be impossible to hide their position from the crows of Dunland but they could at least attempt to shield themselves from the flock's attack as Legolas had already done.

The noise of the birds was dreadful as they, as one being it seemed, swooped low over the Men. High-pitched calls were almost drowned out by the sound of the loud beating of many wings through the air and the Men instinctively covered their ears to muffle the racket. Sharp claws scratched and ripped at exposed backs as the crows broke over them, screeching and squawking and flapping. Cries of pain erupted from the Men and they tried to attack the creatures raining down upon them with swords but there was no defence. All they could do was wait for the vicious creatures to pass them by.

It wasn't long before the birds grew tired of pecking and clawing at the terrified men, women and children and as one they soared back up into the grey skies, retreating to report back to their master on what they had discovered on their patrol.

As the chaos of the sudden attack slowly died down and the squawking and beating of large wings grew distant, Eomer lowered his scratched arms from where they had shielded his head from the mobbing and lifted his head. Black feathers and fluffy down drifted listlessly through the now still air but none of the birds remained any longer, fleeing once they had had their fun.

Slowly, the people started to rise from the ground where they had cowered now that the danger had passed them by. Children began crying, frightened by what had just happened, and the warriors uselessly drew their weapons once more, more for comfort than anything for there was nothing left to fight.

"Is everyone alright?" Eomer shouted above the noise, looking about at the gathered Men for any injured.

Automatically, he sought out Aragorn, worried that the younger man may have been hurt in the assault, but fortunately he seemed well enough as Legolas helped him to his feet. Eowyn too was unharmed, much to his immense relief. In fact, besides a few scratches and bruises there seemed to be surprisingly few injuries. Certainly, the birds, although larger in size and greater in strength than ordinary crows, could not cause any serious harm to the Humans.

"Kinnale!"

Eomer looked around sharply for the source of the loud bellow. It was clearly Janor's voice but he could not see where it came from. He noticed that Legolas had also heard and was searching the crowd for the Rangers.

It was the Elf who spotted the man first and suddenly it was Legolas calling for Valon the healer. Eomer ran over to the Elf, reaching Kinnale in the same instant as the summoned healer. Kinnale was sat on the ground, having been helped up from his front by Janor. One hand was covering his left eye. Through his fingers copious amounts of blood was dripping.

Breathing hard, the Ranger was clinging with his free hand to his second in command and pain was etched onto the blood-caked features that were left exposed.

"Let me see," encouraged Valon, trying to prise Kinnale's hand from his face. "Lower your hand so I can take a look."

It was plain that the man was in utter shock. The skin visible between streaks of blood was deathly pale and the Ranger trembled uncontrollably.

It was Janor and Legolas who between them finally managed to pry Kinnale's arm down so that the healer could get a look at the injury caused in the attack.

Eomer immediately turned away from the gruesome sight but one look was enough to burn the image into his memory forever. Kinnale's left eye was simply no longer there. In its place was a vacant and bloody mess. No wonder the Ranger was in shock, thought Eomer as he fought nausea. Perhaps the crows were not quite as harmless as the Rohirrim had always believed them to be.

In the wake of the attack, Eomer called for the party to halt for a while. He would not move on too soon after such a traumatic event. People were in shock; they needed time. As he moved through the people, reassuring and assessing their general state of well-being, Legolas suddenly appeared before him, blocking his path. Despite the shock of all that had just occurred, the Elf looked enviably unflustered.

"May I speak with you for a moment?" he asked softly.

"Can't you see that I'm busy?" the commander ground out, going to move away. He had little patience for Legolas right then.

"Yes, I can see." When Eomer walked past him to check on an elderly Rohan couple in an obvious state of distress, Legolas continued to follow him persistently. "Eomer, we cannot stay here," he went on, giving up on trying to give the man the opportunity to speak in private; he knew stubbornness when he saw it and in this mood the commander would be unmoveable. "We have to move on."

Eomer scoffed humourlessly at this. "In case you haven't noticed, people are very shaken and are in no mood to start trudging onwards. And Kinnale is seriously hurt."

"Nevertheless, we should leave."

"Do you have no feelings at all?" Eomer snapped, turning on the Elf in anger. "My people were just attacked! Do you understand that? They are frightened and shaken. Are you even aware of those emotions, Legolas?" The insult was cruel, he knew, but the man was too angry to care.

"Yes, I am."

Damn the stupid Elf's calmness. Eomer sighed then said with equal measure, even though it was forced, "We have no need to run from this place. The Crebain will not return any time soon."

Legolas' eyes drifted away from him, towards something unseen in the far distance, a troubled look on his face. After a moment, he replied softly, cryptically, "It is not the Crebain that worry me."

"Then what?"

"I am unsure. Something dark comes our way, Eomer. Something far worse than a flock of crows."

"Something dark? Care to be a little more specific?"

Legolas looked back to the man and shook his head. "I cannot."

"Great! That's really helpful, thank you."

"Legolas?" Janor approached them, ignoring Eomer completely, much to the commander's irritation. In lieu of Kinnale, it was he, Commander of the Rohirrim, who should now take control of the Rangers as well. That was the proper way things should be done. But it seemed that these people did nothing in the proper way.

"How is Kinnale?" Legolas asked of the Ranger as they both turned away from Eomer and started to walk away from him.

Casting a brief glance down at the dark blood that still clung to his hands, Janor answered, "Valon says that his injury is not life-threatening. But…he will never see out of his left eye again."

"I am sorry for that."

Janor nodded and slowed to a halt, bringing Legolas to a stop as well, now that they were in relative privacy away from the majority of the Men. "Legolas, the Rangers…we feel like we should carry on along the road." Legolas looked up sharply in surprise at this statement, at the fact that the Ranger's sentiments mirrored his own. It was a surprisingly rare occurrence. "Eomer may be unconcerned by crows who'd willingly and maliciously peck out the eyes of men but we are no so ambivalent."

"Eomer has called a halt for the night," Legolas confided in a whisper as two Rohan warriors walked close by. "He is convinced the Crebain will not return."

"And you? What is your thinking?"

Legolas again felt his gaze drawn up to the grey horizon and a shudder rippled through him, the chill that had formed in his heart before the Crebain attack returning once more. "Something dark comes our way, Janor, something much worse than…We should leave now; find somewhere to hide out until the threat passes."

"Hide?" Janor had never heard Legolas – or any other person in a position of commanding warriors – speak of hiding from danger before. Innocents certainly had to be protected and often the best way of doing so was to conceal them somewhere safe. But warriors – Rangers, as self-proclaimed protectors of the Free Peoples – did not hide. However, he then remembered how scared Legolas had been earlier. The Elf seemed no more settled now that one threat had passed them by. So, he asked, "Where would we hide?"

"Eomer mentioned this morning that there was a network of caves around about five leagues ahead of us. We should head for there."

"What is coming, Legolas?" the Ranger asked fearfully.

"I wish I knew."

Janor sighed heavily, still undecided. Even though he had been named Kinnale's Second in Command approximately seven years ago, he had never actually been required to take full command of the Rangers before. Kinnale had always had the last word, had always been the one to make the difficult decisions.

After a while of thought though, he nodded and looked back to the Elf. "All right. I'll go check with Valon that Kinnale is well enough to walk." He went to leave but then turned back to the Elf with a knowing smile. "I'll leave you with the pleasure of informing Commander Eomer of our decision."

"Thank you for that great honour," Legolas mumbled to Janor's back as he left to consult with the healer.

**OIOI**

As they had expected, Eomer had been furious that his decision to remain had been over-ruled and he had let them know in quite plain terms. Initially, he had outright refused to move. Let the Rangers go on ahead and push themselves unnecessarily - he wanted no part in it! Unfortunately, his unrestrained anger had, in this case, been his undoing, for as he yelled at Legolas for coming to this stupid and resentful decision in a blatant attempt to undermine him, he had also informed the Rohirrim of the Rangers' plan to head for shelter. The news had spread like wildfire and pretty soon the whole camp had been buzzing with the idea and for the most part they were eager to go too. Startled by the attack by the Crebain though they may have been, they were still afraid enough of a repeat assault to shrug off their doubts and want to carry on.

Thoroughly over-ruled and fuming with anger at pretty much everyone, Eomer had had little choice but to submit to the wants of his people.

"I believe it is going to rain," Eowyn's soft voice came from her place by his side, startling Eomer from his vengeful thoughts and he tore his eyes away from the blonde Elf walking just ahead of him and turned them instead to his sister. "Look at those heavy clouds. I hope we do not get caught in a storm."

"That would be just our luck."

Eowyn looked up at her brother who'd once again returned to staring at Legolas, and tightened her hold on his arm. "Don't be angry at them. They were only doing what they thought was best."

"Best for himself, more like," muttered Eomer under his breath.

She sighed heavily; they may have been apart for many long years but Eowyn knew her brother's impulsiveness and stubborn streak better than all too well. Nevertheless, she felt compelled to softly ask, "Why do you dislike Legolas so? He saved my life."

"And for that at least I am eternally grateful." That was indeed true. Forever would he be indebted to the Elf for the bold risk he had taken in single-handedly rescuing his entrapped sister from the filthy dungeons of Helm's Deep and their depraved masters. And yet he still found the Elven prince to be utterly infuriating. Perhaps it was his short-sightedness when it came to the rule of the race of Men, or maybe it had been his horrible deception with regards to the taking of the Deep that had cemented Eomer's opinion of him. What irritated the commander more than anything else were the airs he insisted on putting on. It was obvious to even the least observant man that the Elf cared and felt very deeply. He had, after all, fought for his kingly ward when it appeared that he was under no special obligation to do so. And he liked the Rangers, it seemed.

When Eomer had come to him that night after the fierce battle at Helm's Deep to thank him profusely for saving Eowyn's life, he thought he'd seen a glimpse of actual friendliness in usually unreadable blue eyes. And when he had been hurt, vulnerable, Legolas had become fairly likable – as much as Eomer hated to admit it. Maybe it had been because his guard had been down. If only the Elf was more like that all the time.

But he was not like that. He was…infuriating.

"I really wish you would make the effort to be nice," Eowyn sighed, briefly resting her head against her brother's arm.

Taking a moment to ensure that her coat was securely wrapped around her as the sky darkened even further, he answered with a crooked smile, "I am always nice."

"Hm."

As the woman of Rohan had predicted, the rain came moments later; a downpour so heavy that it soaked them through almost instantly. They moved onwards though, the Rangers guiding them on. The whole time, Legolas felt Eomer's gaze burning into his back and he fought to ignore it. Let the man be angry at him. There were bigger things to worry about.

"I wish this rain would stop," Aragorn said from his side.

"We will reach shelter soon."

Before the man could continue the conversation any further, Legolas moved away from him, falling into step with Kinnale, who was being helped and supported by the healer and his son Ciaran. Bearing a bandage, already spotted with blood, covering the left side of his face, Kinnale walked with surprising steadiness for a man who had been through what he had. He was pale though, and shaky and seemed thoroughly miserable with the weather.

In spite of all of these observations, Legolas asked, "How are you doing, my friend?"

"Just great, thank you," ground out Kinnale through gritted teeth.

"It will not be much longer before we reach our destination and then you can rest."

Kinnale laughed, although it lacked any humour, and said, "Look forward to it."

Although he tried his best to disguise it, Kinnale was in pain. For all the healer's skills, he was lacking in any herbs that could ease the Ranger's discomfort, which was no doubt great. Bravado was ever the mask of the brave and the stubborn though. Legolas himself knew this all too well. Kinnale would carry on. It was not in his nature to give in or show weakness.

"Would you like my coat?" Legolas offered helpfully even though the man wore his own.

Chuckling, the Ranger asked, "Will it bring my eye back?"

Lips turning up into a smile, Legolas' had to confess honestly, "That is doubtful."

"Then no, I don't want your coat."

"Very well."

Danger still pricked at his senses, proving more of a distraction with every passing minute and Legolas looked about himself almost constantly even though he did not expect the threat to be made obvious any time soon.

In spite of the fact that Legolas did not anticipate any kind of attack, great relief surged through him when at last they reached their destination.

The caves were vast. A quick exploration of the natural structure revealed a network of tunnels, some large enough to crawl through but most far too small to even fit a child. The main caverns proved perfect shelter, however – although the horses had to be left outside. Eomer stayed outside until all the others had been shepherded inside, then he too entered the cave. He had to admit that it was nice to be out of the rain.

It was deemed too dangerous to light the fires so with the lack of any meaningful daylight it was dark inside. People were packed together, once more adhering to their set groups – Ranger and Rohirrim. Legolas, Eomer noticed as he pulled off his sopping wet coat, was stood at the cave's mouth staring out into the pouring rain, heedless of the fact that he was stood so close to the mouth that he was still getting wet. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the Elf, Eomer sat down beside his sister and tried to rub some warmth back into his hands.

"Kinnale is resting now," Aragorn informed his guardian as he approached.

Legolas blinked to clear his mind and was surprised to find that darkness had fallen and that the people behind him had quietened down for the night. He'd been so deep in thought that he had failed to even notice.

"Ciaran won't leave his side though."

"Understandable," Legolas reasoned, rubbing his hand over his forehead. He sighed then and returned his gaze back out at the rain. "The weather has not improved."

"No. Everyone is feeling miserable." Looking his guardian up and down with critical eyes, Aragorn asked, "Do you feel well now?"

"A shadow still weighs heavily on my mind, Aragorn."

Squinting uselessly out into the night, Aragorn shuddered, a reflex that had nothing to do with the chill in the damp air.

Legolas felt his ward's discomfort and instinctively fought to reassure him. "Don't worry. Whatever is coming we can fight," the Elf smiled, laying his hand on Aragorn's shoulder.

"I hope you're right."

Again Legolas smiled, feeling that it must have looked forced, and told Aragorn, "Get some rest while you can."

"What about you?"

"I'll join you in a moment. I just want to get changed first."

That made sense; the Elf's clothes remained almost dripping wet. Normally, Aragorn would not have believed his guardian's words but in the past few days, Legolas had been sticking to his healer's advice so Aragorn supposed that if he felt tired, which he obviously did, he would rest. So, the man went to lie down, not far from where Kinnale and the other Rangers were all asleep. He was pleased to discover that Ciaran too had finally succumbed to sleep, although he remained at his injured father's side.

For a while longer, Legolas stared out into the darkness, which was broken up only by the occasional flash of lightning to reveal a quick assurance that nothing lurked out there. The heavy weight of expectation pressed against his heart and mind, unrelenting. And yet its cause remained intangible. It frustrated him to no end that he simply could not identify the upcoming threat. Stretching out his un-practiced senses did little good.

Shaking his head in defeat, Legolas pried himself away from the mouth of the cave. He got the impression that he could stand there all night long, staring into the darkness, and still be none the wiser.

After quickly changing his outer garments, Legolas laid down in the gap Aragorn had left vacant for him. Instinctively – and rather annoyingly – he found himself still facing the mouth of the cave, looking for something. With a determined sigh, Legolas turned over so that he was instead facing Aragorn, and closed his eyes. Moments later, though, he opened them again. He found that he was too on edge to feel deeply tired as he had done recently so instead of true sleep he instead settled for the more alert state of reverie.

**To Be Continued…**


	45. Red And Black

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks so much for all the reviews. They're so much appreciated. Thanks also to everyone who has added me to their Favourites/Alerts lists. Enjoy the chapter.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 45 – Red And Black**

Aethal leaned his head back against the cold, damp rock in the hope that the cool sensation would refresh him somewhat. Normally being on watch would not pose a problem; he had performed the task many times in the past in all sorts of weather. But tonight he was tired. The Crebain attack, although brief, had tired out all the Men and it was he who had drawn the short straw and been placed on the first watch; perhaps because he was still young, still green, still learning. It was not uncommon that he should end up doing what the older, more experienced Rohan men were not keen on doing. That was the curse of being a rookie soldier, he assumed and something that he just had to live with. At some point, he imagined that even Commander Eomer himself had been at the bottom rung of the ladder. There was plenty of time yet to seek glory and earn respect. But for now, he was stuck on watch and he would not grumble to anyone but himself.

The rain splashing loudly on the wet ground, making the existing puddles ripple, did little to keep Aethal's mind occupied. Quite the opposite, in fact. It had an almost hypnotic effect on him. He felt his eyelids starting to grow heavy. Fighting hard to stay awake was proving increasingly futile. A couple of minutes' shut-eye couldn't hurt. Nothing was coming.

It was not the sound of approaching danger that woke the snoozing man of Rohan, for this danger was eerily soundless. Rather, it was a feeling in the air, an unnatural chill that surpassed even the cold, damp of the bad weather. Aethal woke up mere minutes after he had given into the call of sleep, shivering uncontrollably for no apparent reason.

Blinking his eyes rapidly, Aethal retrieved his heavy sword from where it rested at his side. His gaze swept the space ahead of him, although he did not really know what he was looking for. The rain continued to fall but at least it had eased slightly in the past few minutes. Through the wet haze, Aethal could see nothing and yet somehow he just knew that something was wrong.

Slowly, the young man rose to his feet. A quick glance into the cave behind him showed all the others to be sleeping. Still inexperienced and trying to prove that he was indeed cut out to be a part of Rohan's elite clique of warriors – an even more attractive proposition now that the fight for freedom reportedly lay just around the corner – Aethal decided that it would be stupid to wake the Commander on a baseless hunch.

So, he turned back to the rain and cautiously took a step outside. The chill immediately increased and he found that his sword shook in his hand as he continued to tremble. With painstaking caution, he made his way further outward, eyes peeled for the supposed threat on their camp.

No storm lingered; only the rain persisted. No thunder rumbled around the area, no lightning crackled through the air. And yet the air felt charged.

"Hello?" Perhaps it was not the smartest idea to call out into the darkness given that an unknown threat maybe lurked nearby but it was all he could think to do. His voice was met with nerve-jangling silence.

It was too murky in the rain and the darkness to see much of anything and Aethal felt his bravado waning. Stopping when his foot slipped slightly in the mud, he paused and listened for a long moment. Nothing at all. Perhaps he had been imagining everything after all. Maybe the Crebain attack had rattled him more than he had first thought. Just as he was turning to go back to the cave where the others slept on oblivious, the snapping of a twig breaking through the silence to his right startled him so much that he physically jumped. He instinctively froze, eyes roaming about.

Something was out there.

His heart thumped so loud in his chest that it almost drowned out the soft patter of the rain. He strained to hear anything out of the ordinary above the pounding. Aethal took a hesitant step backwards. This time he was convinced he saw something, a shadow moving out in the haze. Panic raced through him fiercer than ever and he backed up further.

There was no way he could have escaped the creatures even if he had been prepared for their coming. They moved impossibly fast in spite of their impressive size. Aethal did not even have the chance to unleash the scream that caught in his throat at the sight of the black-robed beasts that suddenly appeared before him as if conjured to this place by magic. His head was sliced cleanly off with one swift blow of a heavy broadsword.

The Wraiths, numbering only four this time, did not waste any time. They had not come for the young soldier of Rohan. With the minor irritation dispatched with they moved swiftly and silently towards the now unguarded and completely unaware sleeping Men.

None were disturbed by the preternatural presence moving amongst them. They did not make a sound as heavily booted feet stepped deftly around sleeping bodies. It was not clear to them exactly what they had come for. Only four had deigned to come, following directions provided to them by agents of the Shadow - spies.

Gliding effortlessly amongst the bodies, the Wraiths searched peaceful faces. If the pretender to the throne in Gondor was somewhere amongst these Men then the Wraiths could not identify him. The trouble was that none of the agents and spies sent out to track him had actually_ seen_ this legendary young king. None of the Wraiths knew what their master's most feared and enigmatic enemy even looked like. Why, they could have looked the young man directly in the face and have been none the wiser. They were not frustrated though. There was time yet to worry over the descendent of Isildur.

Sniffing the air proved similarly useless to them. So many filthy Human bodies nestled into such a small space made it all but impossible to discern anything useful. The stench was off-putting and they wanted to leave but they were duty-bound to remain.

And yet they had been drawn here with the storm. There must be something useful to gain.

The four walked with perfect ease in the darkness. They did not see the world or its inhabitants as mortal Men did for they were no longer of this world. Whilst they had been termed 'wraiths', ghosts of Arda, it was the people of Arda who appeared almost as ghosts to the Nine.

All but one in this cave appeared to them in this manner.

As their gazes caught sight of it glowing marginally brighter than those surrounding it, the Wraiths hissed in sheer hatred. They had seen this halo around a being before. They saw it in their master – or rather in the vessels their master chose to occupy.

An Elf.

These shadows held self-restraint far superior to the majority of Sauron's lesser servants and yet they advanced now on the brighter presence like moths drawn to a flame in the darkness.

Only one Elf could possibly be travelling with the Men – the one their master desired almost as much as he desired the king of Gondor. The Guardian.

How pleased their master would be if they returned to the Black Lands with such a coveted gift. And, they reasoned, the Guardian was official mentor to the future King of Gondor. Surely then, the ancestor of Isildur – the most hated amongst all Men – could not be so far away. Who knew what other rewards would come with capturing the hunted pair. And they so deliciously unaware of the dreadful fate that awaited them all; that made the prospect sweeter still.

Kinnale sighed deeply and turned over under the cover of his blanket. Sleep had come easily to him once they had at long last reached the shelter of the caves Legolas has so fervently insisted they reach with all haste. But now, several hours later, pain was beginning to niggle at his senses, drawing him up from the numb depths of sleep. His head pounded like nothing he had ever felt before. In fact, his whole skull felt as though a fierce fire was raging within it, emanating from his face.

And yet…Kinnale shuddered. Chilled, he tugged the thin blanket further about himself but it had little effect on the cold that had seeped deep within him. It had not been sensible to light a fire in such a confined space with no ventilation and whilst spies of the Enemy were abroad, but now Kinnale wished that it had been possible because he was freezing. Perhaps he could share Ciaran's blanket. He recalled his son fussing over him as he laid down to sleep; he doubted that the boy had ventured far from his side. Reaching out, he tried to locate the edge of his son's blanket without having to endure the inevitable trauma of opening his…eye.

Unfortunately, the feat proved impossible and he succeeded only in prodding his unsuspecting son in the back a couple of times. Rather reluctantly, he forced the lid of his one remaining eye open, braced for the explosion of pain that predictably reverberated around in his skull.

Once the pain had ebbed, Kinnale waited for the blurriness to clear and for his eyesight, such as it now was, to adjust to the darkness of the cave. After a moment, he was able to see the bulk of his son right in front of him and he more accurately reached out to pull the young man's blanket towards him.

Suddenly though, movement caught his eye. Perhaps one of the Rangers was awake still or one of the watches returning from duty. Idly, he wondered who had organised the watches for the night, a task that he would normally have taken on himself rather than leaving it to the less experienced Rohirrim. Coming to the conclusion that it would better to ask one of the Men awake for another blanket rather than risking waking his son in the process of his act of larceny, Kinnale rose slightly from the ground, propping himself up awkwardly on his elbows.

Granted, Kinnale's vision was most seriously impaired, not just by the fact that he now only had one eye but also by the thick darkness, but one glance in the direction of the movement convinced him that something was not quite right. For a start, the shape was much too big to be any of the Rangers of Rohirrim. They – for there seemed to be four of them - had to bow their hooded heads just to stand in the low cave and they wore so many thick robes reaching all the way down to their feet that it appeared that they glided with ethereal stealth across the cavern.

Kinnale watched as they congregated around something or someone on the floor near the mouth of the cave. Another chill made its way through him. Whatever they were, they were no allies of the Cause For Freedom.

Blindly, because he feared to take his one good eye off the creatures, Kinnale reached out for his sword, which rested in its scabbard behind him. To shout the alarm now would certainly attract the attention of the intruders and at least one man should be armed when they attacked if that was indeed their purpose here this night. Weak, uncoordinated fingers scrabbled to locate his weapon as he watched the four figures bend lower, silhouetted blacker even than the natural darkness. Kinnale knew then for certain that these were creatures of Shadow.

Unfortunately, it was not his sword that Kinnale's fumbling fingers ended up hitting first. He hit soft flesh in place of cold steel – his son.

"Dad?"

The query had left the boy's mouth a mere second before Kinnale's strong hand clamped urgently over Ciaran's lips. It was too late. The damage was done.

Quiet though the noise may have been, it had been heard by the Enemy.

Kinnale watched in horror as the four black figures straightened abruptly from their bows, perfectly in synch with each other in the movement, heads, shrouded in black hoods, turning towards the source of the disturbance. As one, they let out an unearthly screech that pierced through the silence of the cave, reverberating loudly and echoing for an impossibly length of time.

Chaos ensued. Awoken by the sound, Men leapt to their feet, weapons already poised in a trained and much-practiced response to danger. But they were no match for these beasts, that much became instantly clear to the experienced warriors. Stunned by both the abruptness of their waking and the towering Wraiths in their presence, the Men froze, some latent instinctive reaction to terrible Dark danger. The creatures though did not pause. They feared no man, feared no mortal weapon. Even the Elf posed no threat to them.

Legolas was one of the first to come to his senses. He snatched Aragorn's arm from where the man stood motionless beside him and forcefully dragged him away from the horror of what he was witnessing. At the same time, the Elf yelled to the other Men, all stood similarly petrified at the sight of the Wraiths, "Get out! Get out now!"

His voice broke the spell and panic raged through the people crammed into the cave as they all ran for the entrance of the cave. The Wraiths ignored them all completely. They did not care for Rangers or the Rohirrim – at least not the fleeing ones.

As Legolas herded a reluctant Aragorn outside with the others, a couple of Rangers suddenly backtracked, weapons already drawn, for the Wraiths had set their sights on their Commander and his son; the two unfortunates who had interrupted them when they had come so tantalisingly close to discovering their purpose here. For all their patience when it came to the Dark Lord and his orders, to be thwarted by a mere mortal man was unforgiveable, they could not let it pass and they would soothe their egos in blood.

In the confusion, the Wraiths had advanced upon the one-eyed man and his son, unhindered by the panicked mortals fleeing the cave. It was anger that drove them onwards now and that could not be halted.

Kinnale was struggling to get up from the ground, aided by his terrified son. Both had seen the Wraiths advancing on them and both were horribly aware that there was no way out; they were blocked on one side by the cave wall and another blocked by the towering creatures of Shadow. Trapped.

Outside, people, led by Eomer, were being herded away from the vicinity of the attack, away from the danger and the horror of the great creatures attacking them. However, some were staunchly refusing to leave. All the Rangers had cottoned on to the fact that their commander was in trouble and were not about to run and leave him to his fate no matter what the Rohirrim said. Legolas and Aragorn were also watching the Wraith's progress, although Aragorn's guardian was desperately pleading with the young man to leave while there was still a chance of escape, before their attentions turned on the future king. It was obvious that they did not know who Aragorn was yet and Legolas didn't want to alert them to that fact. Therefore being so ignored was not going down well and Legolas had taken to trying to physically force the man to run.

Pushing him away from the scene unfolding before them, Legolas commanded firmly, "Go! Aragorn, you have to go!"

Wide-eyed, Aragorn was staring wide-eyed at the Ringwraiths but he managed to mutter, "That's them; the ones I have seen in my dreams."

"Aragorn," Legolas interrupted in a stern voice, taking Aragorn's arms securely so he could look into his eyes. "You have to go now. Aragorn, go."

Finally fixing his wavering gaze upon his mentor, Aragorn nodded slowly, at the same time saying, "But Kinnale…"

Out of the corner of his eye, Legolas noticed the Rangers rapidly coming together again, preparing for their ill-advised assault and he was anxious to get to them in order to convince them against their plan of action before they all ended up getting themselves killed – inevitable given their enemy in this case. But before anything else he had to ensure that Aragorn was safely out of harm's way. Given Aragorn's position and what he carried around with him, Legolas didn't want him anywhere near the Nazgul. He'd always considered them being in Mordor too short a distance to be certain of safety. This was much too close.

"Listen to me now; you have to get out of here. Go with Eomer." When the boy opened his mouth to protest, Legolas firmly told him, "The Rangers will help Kinnale. Aragorn, I need you to go with Eomer."

"And you?"

"I'm going to help Janor."

"Legolas…"

The Rangers were receiving their final, hurried instructions from their second in command and Legolas knew it was only a matter of moments before they recklessly blundered into battle with an unbeatable foe. "Aragorn, go right now," he said, already moving backwards away from his ward as he spoke, hand on the hilt of his knife. "Go to Eomer and the others and stay there."

"But…"

"Promise me you'll stay."

"I can fight."

"Not this you can't!"

"Right, but you can."

"Of course not; I'm going to help the Rangers get Kinnale and Ciaran and then get out of there. But you cannot be there when we try."

"Why not?"

"Because you are far too important to risk," Legolas told him, voice growing more rushed by the second but full of sincerity nonetheless.

Looking into his guardian's blue eyes, panicked despite his obvious attempts to hide it, Aragorn asked quietly, "And you're not important?"

Legolas smiled softly in spite of the frantic need to quickly intervene with the Rangers' fool-hardy plan. "Not nearly as important as you, Aragorn." Aragorn did not like this observation one bit but Legolas ignored his look of consternation, continuing his short steps backwards away from his reluctant ward. "Now please go."

Already having realised that there was no way he could win any argument with his guardian – and secretly wanting to get as far away from his living nightmares as possible – Aragorn nodded and finally moved away. He hated to run, especially when other Men were standing up to fight this terrible foe and yet he would not disobey Legolas, not when the stakes were so high; his guardian knew best.

"Janor," Legolas called, running toward the gathered Rangers now that he saw Aragorn retreating away from the cave.

"Legolas, thank goodness you're here to help."

Grabbing the man's arm in a grip that must have hurt with its strength, Legolas told him, "We have to go now."

"But…"

"Now. Get out of here."

The Rangers, stunned by Legolas' command, looked to him in utter confusion. "Kinnale is in there," Veron shouted angrily at him, gesturing to the cave with his sword, as if the Elf was entirely ignorant of that fact.

"I know that, but…"

"I am not leaving my commander in there to be torn apart by those…" Janor started in protest, equally wound up as his comrades.

"Do you know what those things are?" Legolas demanded of him, moving forward suddenly in an openly threatening gesture in the hope it might spark some sense in the man's mind.

"I don't care," the young man concluded, going to shove the Elf aside so he could get back into the cave and carry out his mission to rescue his commander.

"You should."

Standing tall, Janor proudly announced, "I am not afraid of my enemies."

"Then you are a fool," the Elf spat, eyes raking down Janor's body in blatant disapproval. Any other time, Janor would have quailed under the gaze but there was no time for that; lives were at stake.

"And you are a coward."

Despite their resonating deep inside him, Legolas let the words wash over him, refusing to wallow in the truth of them – there were more important things to worry about now and the words came from a place of fear and anger not sincerity. Taking Janor's arm a little more gently this time, Legolas shook his head. "Come away."

"Are you crazy? If we don't do something they'll kill Kinnale and his son."

Looking with open regret towards the cave, Legolas sadly came to the conclusion, "They're already dead."

**OIOI**

Backed up against the cold, damp stone of the cave wall, Kinnale stared in terror out of his good eye at the four beings, radiating darkness, looming threatening over him and his son coming slowly and unstoppably closer – they were like a force of nature. Their arrival was inevitable but they were taking their time, lengthening the moment and thus the terror they inflicted. Ciaran was cowering, in a most literal manner, beside him. The boy, in his horror, had dropped his weapon to the ground and was quivering, slowly sinking closer to the cave floor as though that could spare him. Not that it mattered that his son was cowering. Kinnale doubted that the two broadswords would make any impact upon these particular enemies.

He wanted to speak. He wanted to know what these things were, what they wanted, how they were going to kill their helpless victims. But he found that his mouth was too dry; words would not come. It would have been pointless anyway. What could he really ask? Besides they were not obligated to reply. They had not spoken yet; they used their silence as a weapon of fear and it was working perfectly.

So close were the Wraiths now that Kinnale had to strain his neck to look up into four identically empty hoods. No faces were concealed beyond deep black fabric. And they there was most certainly a presence of some kind beneath heavy, plain black robes for Kinnale could feel it.

They halted only inches away from Kinnale and his son. They stood, still and silent, as though waiting for instructions. The air was so cold now that Kinnale felt himself beginning to shiver uncontrollably, and yet it remained charged as in the moments before a storm. It was a curious feeling.

For long moments the creatures stared – or at least Kinnale assumed they stared; he had yet to see any evidence of eyes. Kinnale felt them as if they were rummaging around inside his invaded mind and found that he wanted to scream out loud from the pain the intrusion caused. Vaguely, he recognised the sound of his son's cries at his side but he could do nothing to ease them right then.

Strange, indecipherable words, low and hissing, emanated from the creatures, proving that they could speak. Or maybe it was all in his mind. Kinnale couldn't be sure; nor did he care. They did not seem to be angry. They did not seem to feel anything. Kinnale found that he was actually glad that he did not understand the language they used, for it hurt his ears even to listen to. Never before had he heard the Black Speech of Mordor but he had no doubt in his mind that that was what the creatures were speaking.

Swallowing thickly, Kinnale asked hoarsely, "What do you want?" It was pathetically weak, he knew, but it was all he could manage. To him it was an immeasurable achievement.

The tallest of the four lifted a great, pitted sword in its clawed hand and Kinnale then knew precisely what they wanted.

Kinnale was a proud man, a brave man, unyielding before the wrath of the Shadow; he would not now quail from that which he most feared. Slowly, so as not to startle the creatures into action, Kinnale bent down to pick up the sword that his son had dropped to the cave floor. It felt heavy in his hand, unnaturally weighted; he was not certain if he could even use it against these creatures of Shadow but he felt better holding it in his hand.

A laugh came from the black hoods and it chilled Kinnale.

"Fool." It was rough, harsh Westron; unpractised.

Kinnale trembled. It was a threat thinly veiled in mockery. He knew the creature was right though, he was a fool; there was no defence. There was nothing he could do now to save his life. Worse than that, there was nothing at all he could do to protect his son.

Desperation coursed through him, no doubt intensified by the presence of these most terrifying agents of Shadow. Never before had he felt thusly. His heart pounded so hard in his chest that he thought it would burst or give in from the enormous effort of pumping.

"Drop it," the voice commanded and, completely against his will, the sword slipped from between Kinnale's fingers and clattered to the ground.

The four Wraiths advanced closer still, swords held high.

Closing his one good eye, Kinnale breathed deeply, shakily, but the air was stale and unpleasant and choked in his throat. Death had never scared him when it had remained in the abstract but now it was breathing down his neck it seemed so much more terrifying. However, unavoidable as it was, he would accept it with honour.

Ciaran, remaining cowered on the ground at his father's feet, his eyes closed, unwilling to look again upon the dreadful Shadow. He heard his father's heavy breathing, felt his fear, the air was thick with it. He wanted to move, to run, or to help, but he found himself paralysed. Tears fell from his eyes. Bravery in the face of death was harder than he'd imagined.

He heard Kinnale's sword clatter down in front of him then heard his father breathe a deep sigh. For some reason, he felt like he must open his eyes. Not knowing was scarier, it turned out. Unfortunately, darkness was all he saw when he opened his eyes. Blinking, Ciaran looked up and straight away wished that he hadn't. He saw four figures towering over his father, blacker even than the darkness of the natural night that surrounded them.

Red swiftly followed black, obscuring his vision momentarily. He didn't need to see to know what had happened and horror filled him, pulsing through every nerve in his body and making him shake. A heavy thump followed – his father's dead weight dropping to the stone floor by his side.

Wetness covered him, thick and hot and he knew it to be blood. His father's blood. He felt himself retch and he was suddenly glad that his vision was a haze of red for he did not want to see what had become of his father. He heard a screech and wondered if perhaps it had been torn from his own throat. Yet it sounded wrong, unfamiliar, unearthly.

Through the black and red haze suddenly a light appeared, bright against the dark world and the screeching increased tenfold. The creatures of Shadow were angry. Were they hurt by the bright light that Ciaran now stared at? – proof perhaps that there was yet hope.

Curious as to the source of their distraction, Ciaran climbed up onto his knees, aware that the cave floor was now slick and slippery with the blood that had poured from his father's broken body. Wanting to locate the source of the light, Ciaran started rubbing at his eyes, trying to clear away the blood that had spattered all over him. However, although his efforts proved useless, they also proved unnecessary as a split second later he heard Legolas' voice calling out clearly but urgently, "Get him out!"

The next thing Ciaran heard was the clashing, grinding of steel upon steel. He wanted to see what was going on around him, wanted to witness the battle he supposed was going on. But shapes, dark and moving rapidly in the shadows of his vision, were all he could make out. He wanted to retrieve his sword, to help but he found his limbs disconcertingly numb and he fumbled even the simplest movement of bending forwards in search for his fallen weapon.

Hands grabbed at him then and he was hauled to his feet.

"Oh gods," Ciaran heard someone – it sounded rather like Kalub – breathe and panic fluttered in Ciaran's chest. What could have been so bad that even the experienced, hard-hearted tracker found it horrific?

As he was dragged away, Ciaran turned back. He wanted to know what was happening.

Just as he turned his head though, whoever was holding him up tugged him away and a hand was pressed against his head so that his face was buried safely against a firm shoulder.

Muffled though his voice was, Ciaran complained, "I want to see," pushing weakly against the person holding him.

Whoever was holding him – he was still uncertain – held him tighter but did not slow in his progress, dragging the boy from the cave.

"No, you don't," unmistakeably Janor informed him.

Stumbling away, Ciaran heard the screeching increasing, the frantic clashing of swords. He wondered who was fighting. Afraid of those creatures of Darkness, Ciaran was worried that perhaps his friends were still inside the cave. So powerful was his fear that he was glad that it was not he fighting those horrific monsters. He didn't have the time to feel guilt for that thought.

"Legolas!" someone close by shouted, although it was nearly lose amidst the background noise.

Ciaran felt suddenly comforted. Legolas was fighting. If anyone could face the Shadow and come out the other side the victor it was Aragorn's Elven guardian. He wondered if Aragorn was also here. No, the protective Legolas would never allow his ward to be near the agents of Mordor. He was glad for that.

Rain pounding against his body alerted Ciaran to the fact that they were outside and it refreshed him somewhat. If nothing else then it would cleanse him of the gore covering him. Above the sound of the rain splashing around him and the shouts of the other men fleeing the scene, Ciaran heard the noise of a fight in the cave behind them and he turned. It was darkness that now obscured his vision.

"Ciaran, come on," Janor commanded, tugging at him again.

"My father." How strange the words sounded to him, quiet and distant.

Janor paused, hesitated at the shaky plea from the much younger man. He was sympathetic, desperately so. But now was not the time to indulge or console. Now was the time to flee.

"We have to go now."

Ciaran wanted to protest, to return to his fallen father but as Janor pulled him away as fast as was possible he found that he was powerless to resist. Anything to get away from the terrible reality that waited behind him.

**To Be Continued…**


	46. The Curse

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 46 – The Curse**

Legolas fell hard on his back against the uneven stone floor and was joined just a second later by Carion. The breath was knocked out of him and he struggled for a moment to inhale for the air was dusty and thick with Evil.

They were no match for the Wraiths, Legolas knew this for certain. He had known from the very first moment he saw the towering shapes stalking across the length of the cave. Distraction, just long enough to get the boy out, had been the goal. He had never had anything else in mind. Now that his mission had been successfully achieved the only way out of this dire situation was to run. The coward's way, he imagined Janor telling him. As the Rangers desperately fought in anger with the creatures who had brutally slaughtered their much beloved commander, Legolas searched for an escape route.

Crawling back up to his feet, Legolas quickly assessed the state of their situation, his mind working quickly to change his strategy.

It was not good.

Three Wraiths now remained in the cave, the fourth having been chased off by the flaming arrow Legolas had aimed directly at the hooded space where its wicked face should have been. Having followed Janor into the cave after the man had determined that he would not leave his friends to their fates, Legolas had hurriedly sparked a flame and lit the arrow, working on a hunch that fire might just do the trick.

Indeed, it had been more effectual than the plain arrow that Janor had first unleashed upon them. The Wraith had merely chuckled at the man's feeble attempt to scare it off its prize. It had not found a shaft of flaming wood coming at it with wicked speed quite so amusing though. As its robes became fast engulfed with flames, it had fled past the amazed Rangers, disappearing with an ear-piercing shriek into the night. That left only three. Too many. But better odds than four.

Unfortunately though, the Rangers had waited too long. Kinnale was dead; cleanly decapitated by a heavy broadsword. At his side, Ciaran had cowered in a defensive position on the ground, spattered with his father's slick bright red arterial blood; a gory, gruesome sight to behold. That was what the Rangers now fought for. That, and revenge.

Now, however, Ciaran had been removed from the equation and Legolas was eager to do likewise. The Rangers though seemed intent on getting vengeance for what the Wraiths had done; a folly undertaking that would undoubtedly get them killed should they be left to their own devices.

Already beaten and battered, the Men wouldn't last much longer. It was only their anger that had given them strength enough to survive this long. The Wraiths knew this and they were not concerned. Fighting against Men, they were confident that they could not possibly lose the battle.

Wearily, Legolas approached the towering robed creatures once again. Despite his almost frantic intent to escape this as soon as possible, to not fight would only end up getting him killed. He should not be tired like he now did in battle but he recognised that these were no ordinary foes he fought. These were the physical embodiment of the Shadow and their power reflected that. Fighting them was immensely draining. The Shadow was so very close, sapping the hope and strength from those standing in defence of the Light.

"Veron!" Legolas yelled as the big man attempted the risky move of attacking one of the Wraiths from behind, an action almost certainly doomed to get him killed.

Fortunately for the man, Legolas' shout served to attract the Wraiths' attentions towards himself instead. Unfortunately, having identified the Elf in the battle, the creature darted towards him with disconcerting speed and stunning agility. Legolas hastily moved backwards in an attempt to get out of its way.

"Get out!" he shouted to the battling men, struggling to be heard over the intense noise.

For the most part, the men had already noticed the futility of this fight and they were quite happy to follow the Elf's command now. The Wraiths did not pursue the men as they disengaged and made for the cave's mouth and the relative safety of the outdoors. They had far more interesting prey at hand now. An Elf, one of the Firstborn, was among them. That was the true prize. Well, that and the boy. And this was not only an Elf but the Guardian. That would be a wonderful coup for the Shadow

With no more flaming arrows to hand, Legolas now had only his twin white knives with which to defend himself. They would indeed be poor defence against the Nazgul.

Soon Legolas ran out of space into which to retreat and ended up pressed up tight against the cold dampness of the cave wall, unable to go anywhere. The whole place reeked of panic, blood and Evil, all conspiring to unsettle and disorient.

He tried to calm his nerves, slowing his breathing. Panic would not help. But it was a hard thing to control. Death lay at hand. The cave stank of it. Kinnale lay slumped against the wall in a wide pool of already thickening blood and before him stood the four angels of death, ready to take him away from this life he had committed to. He closed his eyes only briefly to calm his anxiety although the darkness did little to soothe him.

When he looked up again, the three remaining Wraiths were advancing menacingly upon him. He tried to make himself appear as un-intimidated as possible before them, difficult though it was. However, the Wraiths were amused by this, unimpressed by displays of bravado.

A sword, cold and thrumming with dark power, was pointed at Legolas' throat and he instinctively flinched away from it in spite of his determination not to.

"Thranduilion."

The name burned in Legolas' chest and his breath caught in his throat. It was no surprise that the Nazgul knew exactly who he was, knew all about his past. After all, the Dark Lord himself knew about him and his ward. But that ancient title, 'son of Thranduil', spoken through the conduit of Shadow, made anger boil inside of him anew.

"One of you will die by my hand this night," the Elf threatened darkly his voice trembling with anger.

Laughter rang from behind black robes. They found the very notion of a threat directed towards them amusing. "You cannot harm us, Thranduilion," one of them hissed in return and the bitter words echoed tauntingly inside Legolas' head, throbbing painfully. "You are weak. As you have always been."

"We shall see," Legolas replied, raising his knife level with them.

More laughter of intense amusement at that additional threat followed. "Yes, we shall see." They waited then, as if giving the Elf the time and opportunity to make good on his threat. It was taunting, Legolas knew and it made him madder still. And yet he found that he did not possess the will to actually go through with it. His hand trembled uselessly, making him look pathetically weak before the powerful. Again, the Nazgul laughed. "You see, Thranduilion? You have not the strength."

Legolas released the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding until now in one long rush. Certainly, the Wraiths knew how to tap into a person's worst fears and that he was weak and cowardly was perhaps his worst fear of all. It bit at his very heart with every beat since the fall of Mirkwood. The Nazgul's laughter of amusement did nothing to relieve his belief of cowardice and they knew fully well the effect they had on the Elf stood quaking before them.

Advancing closer, closing in around him, the Three snarled this time rather than laughed. They were moving in for the kill. They'd played their games long enough.

One thing Legolas knew for certain was there was no way out of this now. With no real way of defending himself, the Wraiths would end his life now. He was not afraid. They would not make him suffer; they had better things to do than toy with their prey. Death did not scare Legolas either. Surely anything that lay beyond the veil was better than the darkness that now shrouded his life. In fact, it would probably come as a relief. Legolas very nearly smiled at that thought. How Aragorn would hate him for thinking such dark, fatalistic thoughts at a time when his death was looking him right in the face.

The exiled, down-trodden prince of Mirkwood was not, however, going to go down without a good fight. It may have been hopeless but he was not about to just give into their will, no matter how powerful it proved to be.

As the middle Wraith, standing directly before him, stepped forwards, Legolas took both of his own gleaming white knives and without a moment's hesitation plunged them both into the creature's midriff.

It hurt him more than it did the shadowy being, of that Legolas was positive. Pain shot through him, radiating up through his arms and hitting in him the chest as if it were a physical blow, this was followed almost instantly by a blast of cold so intense that it made him gasp out loud. This was the touch of the Shadow – as close as one could get without staring directing into the eyes of the Dark Lord himself. He fell to his knees as the sharp pain ripped through him and a moment later his twin knives, clean of any blood or gore that would have been expected to be present had they been impaled in any mortal body, clattered to the ground in front of him.

"Fool," the assaulted Wraith accused as though it was speaking a curse. It moved its sword to bring down the killing blow.

Legolas looked up, wanting to see the end as it came. Defiance would be the last thing the servants of the Shadow would see upon the face of Legolas Thranduilion.

The end, however, did not come. Rather, the middle Wraith let out a high-pitched shriek and staggered backwards, then the other two followed the motion, retreating away in a flurry of heavy robes. At first, Legolas was uncertain of just what could have had such a sudden and dramatic effect on the creatures who were said to fear so little in the mortal world. His question was answered a moment later when, still shrilly crying, the Wraiths turned and revealed that their heavy black robes burned with lapping orange flames, ignited by the flaming arrows Janor had just unleashed in their direction.

Moments later, the Nazgul ran, writhing and screaming, almost tripping over themselves in their haste, from the cave, leaving the Elf and Man alone.

"Legolas! Are you alright?"

Suddenly, Aragorn was knelt at his side and Legolas forced himself to stand up despite the fact that his legs felt horribly weak, trying to order his thoughts enough so he could actually form a sentence. "What are you doing here?"

"I was…"

Bending gingerly to retrieve his knives and also trying to ignore the nausea that washed over him at the motion, Legolas told him sharply, "I told you to stay with Eomer."

"I wasn't going to just leave you," Aragorn exclaimed incredulously at the suggestion.

"Idiot," Legolas spat, shaking out his arms in an attempt to diffuse the pricking pain that continued to shoot through them.

"Hey! I came to help…"

Legolas took Aragorn's arm in a tight grip, not letting him finish his protest. "We have to go. They'll be back."

"Wait. Kinnale…" Aragorn said, trying to look around the cave for the Commander of the Rangers.

"He's dead."

The bluntness of his guardian's tone startled Aragorn but he knew better than to be disbelieving of Legolas' word. Not that he had the time anyway. Legolas was already dragging him back outside into the rain. Janor led them hurriedly along the pathway that Eomer and the others had already taken, rushing to catch up with the fleeing Rangers and Rohirrim.

"Do you really think they'll be back?" Janor asked Legolas over his shoulder, daring a quick glance back at the Elf as they walked.

"I'm not taking any chances."

"Good idea."

"Legolas?" Aragorn asked as they moved as fast as they could without losing all footing on the slippery mud beneath their boots. "What about Kinnale?"

"What about him?"

"Are we just going to leave him there?"

"He is beyond help now."

"But if…"

"Aragorn," Legolas snapped impatiently, "it doesn't matter anymore. He's dead. There is no going back."

"It matters to me."

Pausing in their flight from the cave, Legolas gripped Aragorn's shoulders and looked directly into his young charge's eyes with complete candour. "I am sorry, Aragorn, truly I am. There is nothing more we can do. Right now, we have to get as far away from this place as possible." He rested his palm against Aragorn's flushed cheek and implored more softly, "Please, we have to go now."

"Yes, all right," Aragorn nodded in agreement, subtly blinking back tears.

"Come on." Taking Aragorn's arm again, as if afraid that by letting him loose the boy would turn back and disobey him, Legolas ushered him away. Legolas knew all too well how much the young man had looked up to the commander of the Rangers and knew how it must have hurt to know that he was gone for good. Indeed, Legolas himself felt a terrible gnawing grief at the passing of the Ranger, compounded by the manner of his death. To be brought down by the Nazgul must have been nothing short of terrifying. Still, tempting fate and lingering in the vicinity of the Black Riders would be foolish and staying to be slaughtered by the Nazgul would not bring Kinnale back from the dead.

"Janor," greeted Eomer once they finally intercepted the larger group of fleeing men. Green eyes took in the bedraggled three and realised that someone was missing. "There was nothing you could do?" he asked, referring to Kinnale's absence.

Both men looked to Legolas for an answer, so the Elf said, "No. Kinnale is dead."

"Damn it," cursed Eomer under his breath.

Sympathetic though he was to the man's shock and sadness, Legolas knew that this was not the time to wallow so he shoved Aragorn forward and told the man of Rohan, "We have to keep moving."

Already they were moving onwards, following the bulk of people away from the site of death and grief wrecked by the Nazgul. Now that they had started to move they were all eager to put as much distance between them and the site of attack as possible.

"How many injured?" Legolas asked Janor as they walked at a slightly more sedate pace than before, lulled somewhat into complacency now there was some distance between them and the cave.

"Minor injuries for the most part. The Rangers are understandably shaken up."

"Will they be all right?" The last thing Legolas wanted right then was people being unable to keep up, especially when they needed to move quickly.

"They'll be fine."

"And Ciaran?"

Sadness flitted across Janor's face at the mention of Kinnale's son but Legolas continued watching him, waiting for the answer to his question. "Honestly, I don't know."

"I meant, was he hurt?"

"No, I don't think so. Not physically anyway."

None of them should have been too surprised perhaps that Legolas was more focused on the physical than the emotional consequence of what had just happened and yet it hurt them that he appeared so utterly unsympathetic to Ciaran's feelings of loss. There were times when some amongst the Rangers truly believed Legolas to be one of them but at other times, it felt like they didn't know each other at all. This was just such a time. Still, Janor bit his tongue. Now was not the time to have this argument.

Fear drove them forwards. The commanders - Eomer and a rather reluctant Janor – pushed them all far harder than was strictly necessary given that the danger was behind them. Many of the people amongst them were not warriors or great travellers and they found the going difficult, not having any experience at such a swift and long flight from danger. Despite this, they kept going. The rain continued to fall, although the storm was gradually becoming less and less violent as they entered into the second day on the run.

Everyone was tired. They'd walked now for two days and three nights with only occasional breaks lasting no more than an hour. Even Legolas, who possessed, thanks to his, admittedly dulled, Elven constitution superior strength, was beginning to tire.

And surprisingly, it was Legolas was finally brought them to a halt.

It was another miserable grey dawn of the third day when he made his way through the shuffling Rohirrim and Rangers to where Eomer, with his arm wrapped protectively around his sister, was leading them all across the land.

"Eomer?"

"Legolas," the man of Rohan sighed; he was in no mood to listen to the Elf right then. "What do you want?"

"You should call for the halt," Legolas answered, not touched by the man's obvious impatience with him.

"Really? With those things chasing us you want to set up camp?" he shot back in a bitterly sarcastic way, anger bubbling just beneath the surface.

"They are no longer chasing us."

"Ah. Great!" the man beamed insincerely at him, white teeth flashing. "And you know this how?"

"Because if they had been pursuing us we would have been dead days ago."

"I've always admired your sunny outlook on everything."

"Thank you. But I am serious here. We're no longer in danger from the Wraiths," Legolas said with absolute confidence. "Your people are exhausted and they have to rest at some point."

"Why is it that whenever we travel together you always end up insisting that we take a break?"

"Because I am far smarter than you?"

Eomer opened his mouth to retort but Eowyn tugged sharply on his arm to prevent it, a chuckle escaping her throat at her brother's indignation. Rolling his eyes towards the grey heavens, Eomer sighed, "It's safe to stop?" he clarified.

"Yes."

"You're certain?"

"We'll be cautious; place fully armed watches around the camp night and day."

The man glanced back over his shoulder at his people. That they were weary was obvious at a mere glance. Eomer knew that they would not be able to keep going without proper rest for much longer. If there was no need to continue running non-stop then it would be cruel to force them to go on.

"All right."

"Call the halt for the day."

"Did you just hear me say 'all right'?"

Legolas nodded his thanks and turned to go back to find Aragorn. He listened to Eomer calling out to everyone to stop for the day and then heard exclamations of relief from everyone around him. As they were not heading towards any particular shelter, at the call to stop, everyone pretty much just dropped to the ground, gratefully taking the weight off their feet.

On his way to find Aragorn, Legolas saw Ciaran standing looking about him as if entirely lost within the camp and the Elf's heart clenched in sympathy for the child. The young man looked so terribly lost. How familiar that look was. He'd seen it too many times already. In himself, in Aragorn and in countless others bereft by this devastated world they'd become forced to reside in. The young man was now being led by Kalub of the Rangers although the tracker seemed considerably distracted by everything going on around him.

A part of Legolas wanted to leave, to go and find Aragorn and not to have to worry about Kinnale's lost-looking son, but his conscience – rather irritatingly – pricked at him to do something. He found himself walking purposefully over to the two men.

Words of comfort did not come naturally to the exiled prince. Even before the horrors of the War he had not been especially good at offering personal comfort to others. Speeches of encouragement and bravery in battle he could manage but condolences were beyond him and always had been.

"What?" Kalub asked curtly and Legolas realised suddenly that he was standing staring at Ciaran in what must have been a most unusual way.

Shaking his head, Legolas said, "I'm sorry. I was just…We're stopping for the day."

"Yes, we know. Eomer just said."

"Right."

"Legolas, what do you want?" Kalub demanded, defensively placing himself in front of Ciaran, who seemed mostly oblivious to the Elf's presence.

"Nothing. I just wanted to make sure that Ciaran is…"

"He's fine," the man interrupted sharply. "He'll be fine."

"Kalub, what is…?"

"I think you should just go back to Aragorn and leave Ciaran alone with us. His family."

"I…"

"Go."

Stepping closer so that he could speak to the tracker without alerting Ciaran to anything that was being said, Legolas asked, "Surely you do not blame me for…"

"You told us to run. You delayed us. Perhaps if we had ignored your flawed advice then Kinnale would still be alive and his son wouldn't be traumatised."

For a moment, Legolas was rendered speechless. He stood, staring dumbfounded at the Ranger as the words of blame sunk in. It was fair enough that the Men blamed him for the assault and losses at Helm's Deep, he had indeed been responsible then and he could live with that, but to be blamed for the death of the Commander of the Rangers hurt the Elf deeply. Kinnale had been his friend too.

Deciding that arguing over the matter, especially in front of Ciaran, would not do any good, Legolas swallowed thickly and nodded.

"All right," he said softly, backing down. Looking to the young man stood uncertainly, unmoving behind Kalub, Legolas advised, "Try to get some rest."

"Thank you for that bit of pointless advice."

No anger boiled in Legolas' heart at the tone with which he was being addressed; he just felt sadness for what had happened with the Nazgul and his role in it. He knew that Kalub was indeed correct. He had hesitated. Knowing fully well that in the face of the Nazgul Kinnale did not stand a chance of surviving, he had nevertheless held the Rangers, who had been so determined to go in and rescue their commander, back. Perhaps if he had not done so, if he had let them go when they'd wanted to, Kinnale may still have been alive.

"Legolas?"

The Elf looked up in surprise that he was now standing next to his ward, who was pulling a clean shirt from his bag.

"You got him to stop?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Eomer – you got him to stop for a while?"

"Oh. Yes. He agreed."

"For how long?" Upon seeing his guardian's blank look, Aragorn asked again, more forcefully, "Legolas for how long are we stopping this time?"

Legolas dropped his own pack to the ground and sighed before offering his answer. "I'm not sure. Probably until tomorrow. That should give people enough time to recover."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Aragorn."

"You don't seem fine."

"Well, I am."

"Do you want me to go find Valon for you?"

"Why would you think I need to see a healer?" Legolas demanded defensively, crouching so that he could search through his bag for dry clothing to put on.

"Because you are acting strangely."

"Strangely? There is nothing wrong with me."

"Then why are your hands shaking?" the man asked almost triumphantly, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited for a reply, his face set with a stern impression for his mentor.

Legolas looked down at himself, ready to refute the boy's claim. When he pulled his hands slowly from where he had them delved into his pack searching for dry clothes, he frowned deeply. In their rapid flight from the cave and constant vigilance for Enemy activity threatening them as they fled, he'd hardly had time to take stock of himself. Certainly, he had felt the strains and bruises he had sustained during the brief but brutal battle with the Wraiths of Mordor but apart from that he hadn't really had time to focus on anything else. And yet, Aragorn was indeed correct. As he held his hands flat before him, they noticeably trembled.

He gripped his hands into tight fists then flexed his fingers out experimentally. Pain tingled up his arms at the action, making his shoulders and chest ache ever so slightly.

"Legolas?" Aragorn prompted and concern now shone in his eyes.

The Elf sighed and settled his hands, palms down, on his thighs. "I plunged my knife into the heart of a Nazgul," he said, his voice oddly detached now that he stared down at his quivering hands.

"Did they hurt you?"

"No. It is just…They are filled with dark magic."

Now it was Aragorn's turn to frown. Crouching down so he was level with his guardian, the boy asked anxiously, "Are you saying that they…they cursed you?"

Chuckling at the notion, Legolas shook his head. "No, Aragorn. Do not concern yourself; I will be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," the Elf smiled reassuringly. "Get some rest while you have the chance, Aragorn."

As the prince climbed to his feet again, Aragorn asked, "Where are you going?"

"To see if I can be of any help to Janor and Eomer."

"Are they setting up watches?"

"Yes."

"I should offer to take one."

"You should get some rest."

"But…"

"Aragorn, please don't argue with me right now."

The boy nodded even though he remained eager to help in some way too. But he would do as asked by his guardian; both because Legolas most definitely did not seem entirely himself and also because he was, after virtually no rest for days, exhausted anyway.

**To Be Continued…**


	47. Even In The Darkness

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thank you so much for your support in the form of lovely reviews. Here's the next chapter for you. Enjoy.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 47 – Touch Of The Shadow**

Legolas paced back and forth, tracing the same strip of wet, slick mud formed with his own light footprints. He hadn't paced in a while and the motion was surprisingly comforting. He sighed heavily into the silence and raked his fingers through his damp hair. Remembering then that the effects of the Shadow still lingered around him, he lowered his hand and paused for a moment to register that the treacherous thing still trembled slightly despite his best efforts to stop it. He let his hand fall limply back down to his side, not wanting to look at this unwelcome aftereffect of the battle – it reminded him too much of the painful events of three days ago.

As much as it frustrated him, he was tired. Exhausted, actually. When he had volunteered to take the first watch of the day, he had felt oddly restless; he'd wanted to stay on his feet, to keep doing something useful. But now, approaching midday, he was beginning to flag, his body screaming out to him that he was pushing himself too far. Pacing was at least keeping him moving, keeping his mind occupied and alert.

At least the terrible rain had finally ceased. A small but very welcome mercy.

Unfortunately, whilst on watch there was very little to do besides wander around the camp, checking the perimeter. Legolas did not think for a moment that there was going to be an attack. The Wraiths would not return so soon after being injured by mere Humans and there was no way that the Shadow could mobilise Orcs or Uruks fast enough to catch up with them in just three days. Running so hard had gained them some much-needed ground on the Enemy; they could afford this break. Still, the Men were nervous. After such an attack it was to be expected and setting watches was a small price to pay for peace of mind so that they could rest easy.

On his own, with no one else to converse with, nothing to distract him, Legolas' thoughts inevitably turned inwards. Given that his thoughts were dark of late, this was a somewhat dangerous prospect. He scrubbed his hands across his face to wake himself up and wipe away the ache that was beginning to form behind his eyes.

"You want to get some sleep?"

The voice startled Legolas, making him jump and spin around so quickly that he almost lost his balance in the slippery mud. However, the threat was only Veron and Carion coming to relieve him of duty. The two identical brothers looked equally beaten up, having faced the wrath of the Nazgul so recently, but they were clean and appeared to be well-rested, managing even a brief smile in his direction as they approached.

"Thank you."

"Hey, Legolas?" Veron called to him before the Elf could walk away. "I just wanted you to know…Kinnale. It wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could have done to prevent…what happened."

Legolas nodded slightly, offering him a tight smile. "Thank you."

"All right."

Carion called after him, "Get some rest."

As he walked away, the Elf nodded in ready agreement. That was exactly what he planned on doing. He moved carefully around the sleeping Men until he spotted where Aragorn was buried under his blanket, sound asleep. Carefully, Legolas packed away his weapons in his bag, trusting that the men now on guard would keep them safe for the remainder of their respite.

Before he had the chance to join his companions in sleep, he noticed something. "Ciaran?"

The boy turned around sharply at the sound of Legolas' voice, clearly startled at being caught. He hadn't thought anyone in this part of the camp would be awake. He'd taken the opportunity to sneak away at the changeover of the watches so he wouldn't be noticed but he hadn't given any thought to the Elf.

Even though he knew there was no chance that Legolas would simply turn away and let him be, Ciaran spun back around, intent on striding away from the vigilant guardian of the king. "Leave me alone."

However, Legolas had already caught up with him and snagged his arm to halt his progress. "What are you doing?" Legolas' eyes roamed down the young man's body, noting the packed bag slung over his shoulder and the weapons grasped ready in his hands. Rephrasing the question, Legolas asked, "Where are you going?"

Snatching his arm from Legolas' tight grip and carefully avoiding the Elf's eyes, Ciaran muttered, "Leave me alone," again, hoping it would have greater effect.

He should have known that Legolas could never simply allow him to walk away. "Where are you going?" the Elf repeated a little more firmly this time.

"It's none of your business."

Not overly offended by the bluntness of the young man's reply, Legolas pressed, "I think it is my business to know, Ciaran."

"Let me go."

"Certainly. As soon as you tell me where you're planning on going."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Then why are you carrying your bag and weapons in a direction leading away from the camp?" Legolas asked with feigned innocence and genuine curiosity. "Tell me where you're going."

Frowning, Ciaran shifted uncertainly on his feet, aware of the blue gaze burning into him, pressing more intensely for an answer, before boldly asserting, "I don't answer to you."

"No? Perhaps you would answer to Janor or Eomer instead? Shall I go wake them and we'll see if they agree with me?"

As Legolas tauntingly moved away to make good on the threat, Ciaran suddenly panicked. He couldn't be certain that Aragorn's inscrutable guardian was bluffing. And the Elf was correct; Eomer and Janor would demand to know what he was doing and when they found out the truth, they would do everything in their power to prevent it. Right then he didn't care at all what the two, powerful commanders in his eyes, said but he also knew that neither would hesitate in dragging him back and tying him down to prevent him from doing what he wished. It was a risk too great to take.

"Ciaran?" Legolas prompted, staring down at the boy. "Where are you doing?"

Lowering his head, Ciaran exhaled slowly. He couldn't escape now. He knew the Elf well enough to realise that he would not be allowed to leave without an explanation.

Softly, he said, "You know where I'm going." The Elf was no fool. He had to know.

Legolas nodded and his eyes softened slightly, indicating that he did indeed know. Of course he had to know what Ciaran wanted to do; exactly the same thing he had wanted to do after watching his own father get beaten to the floor and slaughtered by the creatures of Shadow. Only, Ciaran actually had a shot at doing it. He could go off right now and easily stumble across something evil to kill; that action might at least sate his need for revenge. Could Legolas really stand in the way of that? After all, not being able to gain closure for himself was what had made Legolas what he now was. Did he want Ciaran to turn into something akin to him? But on the other hand, he knew that killing a few Orcs who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time would not be enough for Ciaran. He would become consumed by that need for vengeance until it was all he could think of. No matter what he maintained, it would never be enough, not until he took on the Wraiths themselves and Legolas knew that the boy was no match for them.

"Yes," Legolas sighed, rubbing his hand over his aching forehead.

Looking decidedly dejected, Ciaran stared at his boots as he asked, "You're going to tell me that I'm stupid and reckless."

"No, I wasn't going to say that."

"No?"

"No; I understand that you feel angry, that you want revenge but…"

"But I can't, right?"

"Yes."

"Because I'll end up getting killed?"

"Yes."

Tears sprung to Ciaran's eyes but he hotly ground out, "Well, I don't care."

"I know you feel that way now."

"You don't know anything!"

"Yes, Ciaran, I do."

"No, you don't!" Ciaran yelled. When he remembered that all around him people were sleeping though, he lowered his voice, blinking his eyes slowly, letting the hot tears spill down his cheeks. "You don't know anything," he hissed. With that, he turned and strode away from the Elf, swiping at the tears on his face with his sleeve. He hated the idea that Legolas had seen him crying. His father would have admonished him for being so foolish but he didn't care. Let Legolas judge him. It didn't matter anymore.

A Human being aware of one of the Firstborn coming up on them would have been almost impossible. Now was no different. As he moved quickly away, desperately trying to swallow back the sobs that came up from his chest, Ciaran did not even hear Legolas' footsteps coming up behind him, didn't even know that the Elf was following him until suddenly, Legolas grabbed him again, dragging him back.

Turning about suddenly, Ciaran, in his anger, lashed out wildly with his fists at the Elf restraining him. "Let me go," he shouted, attempting to shove Legolas away from him. However, Legolas was stronger and easily held him back, uncaring of the weak blows Ciaran was raining down on him. He simply dodged them or else let them fall without even a slight grimace of pain. That made Ciaran angrier still. If he could not hurt Legolas, then what good would he be against the Nazgul? "Get off of me!"

"Calm down," Legolas ground out, trying to restrain the young man's arms before he caused some serious damage.

"Let me go."

"No. You have to calm down." Legolas was fairly sure that it was not his words that were having a calming effect on the young man but at least Ciaran was running out of steam. "Stop now," he said firmly, gripping Ciaran tighter. "I know that you're angry, I know that you're upset but if you go after them now you're going to get yourself killed."

"I don't care."

"There are people who do care about you," Legolas told him firmly and without hesitation. "Like your mother. Ciaran, think about your mother. She would not want this."

At this, the young man stilled, standing suddenly deflated, still held tight by a cautious Legolas. For a moment, it seemed like the man was considering continuing on his path of destruction against the Shadow that had just taken his father from him. But common sense won through in the end and Ciaran's shoulders slumped and his eyes dropped from the horizon to the ground instead. Swallowing back the lump in his throat, the man slowly nodded, tears slipping down his face once more.

Legolas' hands moved from gripping Ciaran's arms to gently lay them on the man's shoulders instead. "I am sorry, Ciaran, truly I am," the Elf told him.

"It's not fair," Ciaran cried and slowly leaned into Legolas so that his head rested upon the Elf's shoulder.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that this happened to you." Pain flared in Legolas' chest, sympathy burned in his heart. He knew Ciaran's pain. He hated that now Ciaran would have to endure that bitter, terrible pain of loss for the rest of his life. There were no words that Legolas could think of to ease that pain. There were none that anyone could have spoken to him after Thranduil's death that could have made it better, so he would not waste his breath trying. Rather, he let Ciaran cling to him, let him cry and release that pain that resided deep in his heart.

Once all his tears had been spilled, his sobs finally cried out, Ciaran stood back and turned away from the Elf, wiping his face on his sleeve and taking a deep, albeit shaky, breath.

Legolas' hand fell on his shoulder again. "Come, let us return to camp. You need to rest."

Head still bowed, Ciaran let Legolas drape his arm supportively over his shoulders and lead him back to where the Rohirrim and Rangers were camped. They had drifted further from the camp than Ciaran had thought – or maybe the fact that his heart and body was heavy with misery that it felt further to walk than when he'd been filled with angry passion.

Gently, Legolas helped Ciaran sit down in the place he'd vacated earlier. He helped the young man shrug off his bag and coat then urged him to lie down and covered him with a blanket.

"Try to get some sleep," Legolas said to the young man softly.

Ciaran nodded, suddenly feeling very tired, and let his eyes slip closed. "Could you stay here for a while?" he mumbled sleepily.

Legolas was surprised by the request. Anxiously, he glanced about, searching for someone more suited to protective duty; perhaps Janor or even Eomer would be better at comforting than any attempt he could make. Unfortunately, no one had been disturbed by their absence and return to the small camp.

A tentative hand slipped itself into Legolas' hand and the Elf looked down at the young man's fingers clenching around his own.

Clearing his throat, Legolas finally answered, "Of course I'll stay." He settled himself down on the ground, keeping a tight hold on Ciaran's hand. Already, the young man was drifting off to sleep, thoroughly exhausted. Legolas ran his hand over his eyes.

How did this always end up happening to him? First Aragorn and now Ciaran. Given that he had never really wanted guardianship of anyone, the prospect of the son of Kinnale also clinging to him was not one he particularly relished. Responsibility was hardly a strong point for the exiled prince of Mirkwood. To have more piled on top of him, especially considering Aragorn's future which grew more complicated with every passing day, was not a prospect he liked much at all.

"Is he going to be all right?"

Legolas startled, looking up to see Aragorn standing before him. He'd been so lost in thought; he hadn't even heard his ward's approach. "I'm sorry?"

"Ciaran – is he going to be all right?"

"Oh." The Elf's gaze drifted downwards to where Ciaran lay sleeping deeply. Smiling very gently, Legolas answered, "He will be fine in time."

"You're sure?"

"You tell me – you've lost your father too."

"So have you," Aragorn dared to point out.

"Yes." For a moment, Legolas' eyes glazed over in thought for the past. Then he said, "He'll be fine."

Aragorn agreed, "Yes." He turned and left Legolas and Ciaran alone. He felt like he should have been experiencing jealousy; someone else taking Legolas' time and affection away from him, but he did not. He only felt sadness. Three kindred spirits, each of whom would be lost without each other. He wondered whether his guardian felt the same way. He would probably never know.

**OIOI**

"Wait. What am I supposed to say to them?" demanded Aragorn as he hurried to keep up with his guardian as they strode quickly through the Human camp. "Legolas?"

"Yes?" the Elf called back nonchalantly.

"What am I supposed to say?"

"Aragorn," Legolas sighed heavily in wake of the imploring question. "Just go to Eomer, tell him that we should move out, tell Janor and then tell everyone else. It really is not difficult."

"For you maybe."

"Please just do it."

"Why can't you do it?" implored the young man, narrowly avoiding tripping over the leg of an elderly Rohan man sat on the ground.

"Because."

"Ah."

"Aragorn, I am busy."

"I don't feel comfortable doing it."

"Why?"

"I cannot command these people."

Legolas stopped abruptly and Aragorn bumped into the back of him before, with an irritated sigh, the Elf turned to face his ward. "First of all, you _can_ lead these people seeing as you are their leader and secondly, all you have to do is tell everyone that we are leaving within the hour. It is not a life-altering command."

"Don't get annoyed with me."

"I am not. Just do this one thing."

Before Aragorn was given another opportunity to object, Legolas had walked away from him, unwilling to hear any further protests. Watching his guardian go, Aragorn sighed in exasperation. He really did not want to start issuing orders. It had only been three weeks since Kinnale had passed away and he wasn't entirely comfortable forcing himself into the Ranger's recently vacated position. Nevertheless, he went off in search of Janor and Eomer as he had been told to do.

"Legolas?"

The Elf turned around when he heard Ciaran calling his name, running to catch up with him. "Yes?" The boy had been sticking close to him ever since the events of three weeks ago. He didn't mind except it made him feel somewhat uncomfortable to be considered a guardian to a second person, especially one who was, understandably, so reliant on the support of another. "What is it, Ciaran?"

"Do you need help with something?"

"No."

"Are you sure? I could help pack things away."

Legolas went to assure Ciaran that there was nothing he could do to help at that particular moment but the look of desperate need for something to occupy his mind that shone in his eyes, so very much like his father's, changed Legolas' mind and his features softened. "All right," he smiled. "You can get people ready to go. Inform them that the order to leave will soon be issued. It might save us some time."

Nodding most enthusiastically, Ciaran went off to do as asked.

As he watched him go, Legolas pondered on the young man. To any casual observer it would appear that he had actually been doing remarkably well since his father's untimely death at the ghostly hands of the Shadow. He'd been keeping himself busy, keeping his mind occupied and he had found a friend to latch onto in Legolas. But Legolas knew that it was not possible for him to have bounced back from his terrible ordeal so quickly. Not only had he lost his father but he had witnessed the gruesome murder, had been literally drenched in the blood of his parent, and he had looked into the Shadow of the Ringwraiths of Mordor. Even Legolas, who was considerably more experienced than the young man, had been majorly affected by the presence of the Nazgul so close. It was not possible that Ciaran went untouched by their magic.

Legolas did not understand where this sympathy for Ciaran and his plight was coming from inside him. When Arathorn had died, Aragorn had been similarly distraught and Legolas had ruthlessly dragged the child away from the resting place of his father, had had little sympathy or time for his distress. Why now had that changed so dramatically?

"Yes, I know we're leaving now, thank you, Aragorn," Eomer sighed as he secured two bags of supplies to his horse.

"Legolas told me to tell you."

"Why, exactly?"

Aragorn shrugged, beginning to feel fed up with being ordered around by Legolas and then told off by Eomer for doing as he was instructed; it seemed that he couldn't do anything right by either of them. "I don't know. I'm just doing what I'm told."

"Fine," the Rohan man said shortly, seemingly distracted again.

"Legolas told me to let everyone know that we were leaving. Is that all right by you?"

"Do what you like, Aragorn."

"Right. Thank you," the young man muttered under his breath, turning from Eomer to do as Legolas had asked him. He had no idea how to go about addressing the whole of the camp. If he was uncomfortable speaking with authority to the commanders then ordering dozens of people was beyond intimidating. He had seen Eomer, Legolas and the late Kinnale do it multiple times and they always made it look so terribly easy but in truth now that he was faced with the prospect of doing it himself it seemed terribly difficult.

Looking about himself, Aragorn cleared his throat loudly, hoping to gain the attention of those nearby, although it had no effect. People did not even notice him.

"Excuse me," he called but it was too soft to be heard above the background noise. "We're moving out soon."

"What are you doing?" Eomer snapped as he breezed past the young man.

"I…" Aragorn turned to follow the man of Rohan and explained, "Legolas told me to let everyone in the camp know that we are leaving soon."

"Then tell them."

Hesitantly, the young man confessed, "I don't know how."

"Just tell them."

"How?"

Releasing his breath in an annoyed rush, Eomer raised his eyes to the heavens then shouted loudly, startling Aragorn as he did so, "Get ready to go."

Immediately, the men and women in the camp started getting ready to leave upon Eomer's order.

"See? Simple," Eomer declared to Aragorn as he started to walk away.

"Right, simple," the young man muttered sarcastically as he turned to go in search of his guardian.

Legolas was aiding an elderly woman in packing away her things. As Aragorn approached him though, the Elf rose to his feet and from the dissatisfied look in his eyes, he'd been watching Aragorn's fumbling approach to issuing a simple order to the people following the commanders of Rohan and Rangers.

"I asked you to do it," he asserted as soon as Aragorn was close enough to hear.

"It's done isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

"What is wrong?" Aragorn snapped irritably, his mood turning darker by the minute.

"Nothing is wrong. Except that I asked you to give the order to leave and instead you handed the task over to Eomer."

"I did not pass it over. He just did it."

"You should have done it yourself."

"You…" Aragorn shook his head, gritting his teeth together in annoyance, eyes moving to the elderly woman who was watching the exchange in interest. "Can I talk to you in private?" Although the Elf looked far from pleased, he did step with Aragorn away from the group of people Legolas had been helping so that they could speak with a degree of privacy. "Why did you tell me to give the order for everyone to leave?"

"Aragorn," Legolas sighed wearily, passing his hand over his eyes. "Honestly, I didn't think this would be such a big problem for you. It was a simple…"

"It was not simple for me and you know it!"

For a moment, Legolas looked into his ward's eyes, trying to see what was really troubling Aragorn. "You…I don't understand, Aragorn, you knew this was coming. You are their leader."

"No I am not. Kinnale…"

"Kinnale is dead," Legolas told him pointedly, his patience becoming frayed.

The words slammed full force into Aragorn and he took a deep breath to clear his mind of pain at the loss of one he had genuinely liked. He couldn't understand how Legolas could be so entirely unfeeling. Really, he thought that his guardian had softened over the years they had travelled together. Perhaps things could not so easily be changed.

"I know that," Aragorn finally replied in a soft voice.

Quietly, Legolas told him, "You are going to be king someday. At some point you are going to have to start giving orders to these people who follow. Why not start now?"

"Because I can't!"

"Aragorn, I am not even asking that you make a decision. I asked you to relay a message."

"I cannot…"

"Why?"

Shouting now in heated anger, Aragorn answered, "Because they don't care who I am. I have no authority over any of them – Ranger or Rohirrim. I can't order any of them to do anything. And Eomer and even Janor is more experienced than me…"

"Be that as it may, you have the right to."

"That doesn't matter to any of them."

"It should matter," Legolas told him, walking away already.

"Great. That's fine then," the boy murmured grouchily but then he hurried after his guardian. "Legolas, why are you pushing this all of a sudden? You've never wanted me to command before. Why now?"

"Because it's time, Aragorn. We're nearing Gondor. At some point you are going to have to take the lead and I'm not always going to be there to push you to do so."

"Isn't that going to annoy Eomer and Janor?"

"Yes, but I don't care much about that."

"I care."

"You shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because this is your destiny, Aragorn. You're meant to lead these Men and it doesn't matter what Eomer or anyone else thinks about that."

"Legolas…"

The Elf sighed heavily and stopped to look back at his ward again. "I'm sorry, Aragorn. This is my fault."

"What is your fault?" Aragorn pressed impatiently.

"This. I should have taught you all this years ago. I just…I thought we'd have more time." Legolas sounded sad again and Aragorn's anger melted away for he knew that tone all too well. Suddenly, Legolas' hand appeared on his ward's shoulder and then Legolas said, "I am sorry, Aragorn." He smiled then, weakly. "I think this is not what your father had in mind for either of us when he entrusted me with your education and keeping."

Chuckling, Aragorn reasoned, "I believe this was exactly what he had in mind."

It was a little reassurance to the Elf and he smiled his thanks for the thoughtful words. "All right. Get ready to leave."

"Legolas," the young man called after his mentor as Legolas went to help the Men pack up camp. "I'm sorry. I promise that I'll try harder to be the leader you want."

Legolas nodded; he knew Aragorn would never purposefully let him down. It was hard though, watching the man struggle with things that by now should have been second nature to him. He did not blame Aragorn at all. These were his failings. No one else's.

**OIOI**

Sauron was tired. Tired and therefore increasingly grouchy. The body he had taken recently was failing him already, after only a few weeks. This was getting beyond frustrating. What good was he if he could not even sustain in a physical body for weeks at a time? Not for the first time, he had ordered his greatest minds, such as they were, to come up with a viable solution to his continuing problem. He needed something more permanent to sustain him and he needed it quickly. Reports from his spies of rebel forces of Light gathering were growing more frequent. They had taken the Deep in Rohan. That had been a blow. He had not anticipated it. It had not even once crossed his mind. Saruman had been confident that the ancient stone fortress could not be taken. And he had listened to that assurance without questioning the Wizard's wisdom. Apparently, they had both been wrong.

It had been a bold move that the young 'king' had executed – storming a stronghold so well protected by the Wizard's forces. Sauron did not understand yet quite why he had done it. Helm's Deep gained the small army now following the king nothing great. It was too remote to be of any use to any attack they had planned on the armies of Shadow. Not to mention that it was at best a temporary haven. One could not stage an attack from the Deep. Aragorn must have known that. He had the Rohirrim on his side.

Sauron might have considered this to be an act of cowardice, might have rejoiced that at last the man was scared and on the run and searching in desperation for shelter from the threatening storm that was coming for him and his ragtag band of followers. Had it not been for the fact that Aragorn had not stayed at the fortress. He had not hidden away in the Deep, even though it was the sensible thing to do. Despite its failings, Helm's Deep was an easy place to defend. They might have succeeded in keeping the Deep once it had been gained. But in fact, it had been mere days later that his spies had informed the Dark Lord that Aragorn was leading his Men, the now combined forces of the Rangers of the North and the Rohirrim, away from Helm's Deep.

Confusion gnawed constantly at him over this. Sauron did not understand the move. Why attack Helm's Deep? The Men gained nothing from it. The attack presented only risk for them. Not only had they undoubtedly lost warriors in the fight and suffered countless injuries, but they had also betrayed their position for there was no way that such an assault would go unnoticed. They may as well have lit beacons leading Sauron's forces to their position. But it got odder still, because Aragorn's intention had clearly not been to bring the army of Mordor to him, for he had left just days after taking the Deep from the Shadow.

What was this young king playing at?

Now, Sauron was by no means concerned by Human losses but he could not comprehend Aragorn's reckless, dangerous strategy.

The conundrum was frustrating Sauron for he could not grasp the explanation no matter how long he thought upon it.

A loud pounding on the door interrupted his chain of thought and although he barked out a sharp, irritated, "Enter," he found himself glad for the distraction from his thoughts. "Ah, you have returned," he said almost in pleasure as the Witchking and his companions filed past a trembling Orc servant and into the room on silent feet. "Yet not victorious. The boy still lives, protected by the Men following him." It was not a query. Sauron knew. "You have failed me. Again."

Lesser beings may have protested their innocence, stated their determination to set things right. But the Nazgul did not beg or plead. Their leader simply agreed, "Yes, Master."

"That is…disappointing," Sauron sighed, standing from his throne and stepping carefully down the stone stairs. The Wraiths said nothing as the Dark Lord walked, stretching his legs as he went, cramped as they were from sitting in the same position for too long. He paced around them and they stood as ghostly statues as he observed them. They were unafraid. Sauron didn't know how to feel about their complete indifference; it could be perceived as both an asset and a curse.

As he slowly circled them, eyeing them shrewdly, he observed, "You number only eight."

"Yes."

"Where is the other? Where is the Ninth?"

Keeping their faces front, impassively ignoring Sauron as he passed behind them, the leader of the Nazgul explained simply, "We were attacked. The Men got the better of us."

"That is not good."

"Yes, Master."

"Where are they now, these Men who bested you?"

"A cave on the road to the White City."

Sauron considered this for a moment, pacing around the dark ones, deep in thought. "On the road," he mused out loud. "A bold move, Aragorn. Very bold." The boy was still unafraid of discovery. Why? Was he so confident that he was untouchable by the Shadow? Why did he not feel the need to hide? To do otherwise was so obviously foolish. And yet Aragorn did not hide. He did not do the sensible thing. Was it a statement, a show of bravado? If so, then it was indeed a great risk. Damn it, what was he trying to prove?

"Orders, Master?"

Going after Aragorn was not helping. The Nazgul were not enough. Yes, they were powerful creatures but he needed something…bigger. Behind his hood, Sauron smiled.

"Return to Minas Morgul and wait there. I will send for you again."

They were dismissed and they left silently to return to their given home and lick their wounds. They may not have been fearful for their master but they were not entirely emotionless. They felt pride. That pride had been severely dented after being beaten back by a mere band of Humans. Ego was a fragile thing even in the powerful shadows of Mordor. The Nine were not used to being beaten and they did not like it one bit. Still, they would take no action until so commanded.

"Master?" the Mouth of Shadow asked as he entered upon being summoned.

"Send out all our forces from Isengard. Send them all after the boy. Bring him to me."

"Alive or dead?"

"I care not any longer."

The creature nodded slowly and deeply. It was the order all inside Barad-dur had been waiting for.

"And being to me the White Wizard."

The Mouth of Sauron bowed low to his lord and master. "Yes, sir." He turned and strode out of the presence of the Master of Arda, robes fluttering around him. He smiled a cracked smile once he was out of sight of the Dark Lord Sauron. Finally, his master was ending this.

**To Be Continued…**


	48. Treachery

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 48 – Treachery**

"Ciaran?" Crouched awkwardly in the darkness, Aragorn shook the boy's shoulder to rouse him. "Ciaran, wake up."

Although barely above a whisper, Aragorn's voice woke Ciaran from his troubled sleep and the young man abruptly sat up, a shout dying on his lips before it shattered the silence. Perspiration beaded on his brow and trickled down his back despite the chill in the night air and he shivered.

It took Ciaran a moment to catch his breath. Blinking rapidly, he looked about to find Aragorn crouched at his side.

"What…?" Ciaran started to ask, eyes still wet and a little unfocused as he struggled to pull himself from the memory of his nightmare.

"Shush," Aragorn hushed him then glanced to the side. Ciaran followed his gaze and saw that Legolas was fast asleep right next to where Aragorn was crouched. "Don't wake him up."

Nodding, the younger man wiped at his face with his sleeve. "Right."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. I was…It was just a dream." Ciaran's voice was understandably shaky but his breathing had steadied and he appeared calmer now, soothed somewhat by Aragorn's presence at his side. "Sorry I woke you."

"That's all right." Aragorn shifted so he was sat more comfortably on the ground and in a whisper, confided, "I've had my share of nightmares over the years. We all have."

Smiling shakily, Ciaran nodded. "Thank you." He pulled his flask from his bag and took a slow drink of water, taking the pause to calm his nerves in the wake of his disturbed sleep. When he was ready, he struck up a conversation with Aragorn who remained waiting patiently at his side. "Legolas is your guardian. Your father…he died?" Ciaran asked quietly, hesitantly. Aragorn had never spoken of his past before and Ciaran didn't know if it was still a touchy subject for him.

Aragorn did not seem to mind though and answered without hesitation. "Yes. When I was nine."

"Just a child," Ciaran murmured thoughtfully.

"But still old enough to understand all that was going on."

"That must have been hard for you."

"Yes. My father was all I had. My whole life he protected me, shielded me from the real world. I loved him very much."

"Your mother?"

"She died when I was an infant. I don't even remember her."

Shaking his head, Ciaran felt sympathy clench his heart. "I can't imagine that – being all alone."

Aragorn smiled softly at this. "I'm not alone." He glanced behind him over his shoulder then added, "I have Legolas. If not for him I fear that I really would be all alone. I don't know what I'd do. Certainly I wouldn't be here. Probably, I'd be still in the captivity of the Orcs – or I'd be dead."

"Legolas saved you from Orcs?"

"Yes. One minute my father and I were being shoved along by Orcs and the next Legolas appeared and slaughtered every last one of them. He took me with him after my father died. Not that he was happy about it at first. I was sure that he hated me in the beginning but he saved me and has continued to do so ever since."

"I wish I had someone like that in my life," Ciaran said quietly.

"You have your mother in Bree."

"True. I can't wait to get back to her once this is all over. What are you going to do when the War has ended?"

It was a question that took Aragorn by surprise for it was one that he had never even considered before. "I don't know," he muttered thoughtfully, stumped at how to answer. Not once had he thought that one day – if everything went as planned and was successful – the War would be over and he would be free from fear; there would be no need to travel across the lands fighting evil anymore. What then would he do? Would he stay with Legolas? Would the Elf even want him anymore? Where would they go should they remain together? Perhaps they would stay in Gondor – the most likely given that he would be king of that realm – or maybe Legolas would want to return to his own home or maybe to Imladris, he'd liked it there, Aragorn recalled. Would he want Aragorn with him or would the newly crowned king be made to rule Gondor and its people on his own?

"Aragorn?"

Ciaran's voice startled the young man from his thoughts and he realised that he had momentarily become consumed by them. "Yes. Sorry. I…I don't really know." He dusted down his trousers simply for something to occupy his mind. "To be honest, I haven't given it any thought."

Shaking his head, Ciaran mused, "I don't know how you do it."

"Do what?"

"Deal with who you are." Realising that from the look on Aragorn's features he wasn't explaining himself very well, Ciaran corrected, "One day you'll rule over all these people. All those Men looking to you for guidance. I can't imagine how that must feel."

A surge of fear went through his heart as that old dread re-emerged once again, having only been hidden beneath the fragile veneer of calm he had built up over the years since the discovery of his birth-right. He shoved it back down for the time being, unwilling to confront it just yet. He shrugged nonchalantly in response.

"Sorry," the younger apologised.

Aragorn smiled gently, in that gesture dismissing the man's concerns. "You should get some rest," he whispered, sitting up straight as he did so.

"You too."

Chuckling, Aragorn assured, "I will."

"You know," Ciaran smiled as he laid back down, "you sound an awful lot like Legolas at times."

"That is just about the nicest compliment you could have given me," Aragorn grinned in return as he got to his feet, mindful not to disturb his guardian who remained sleeping at his side. "Sleep well."

Ciaran wrapped himself in his blanket, his mind considerably more at ease now. Sleep came more readily this time. With Legolas and Aragorn firmly on his side, he did not feel quite so lost anymore.

**OIOI**

Rain pelted the sleek black face of the forked tower of Orthanc, flowing down over the glossy facia. Great forks of lightning split the dark sky above, briefly flashing bright white to illuminate the thick clouds still heavy with rain despite the downpour. The pits of Isengard remained active, however, despite the weather, churning out smoke and evil abominations dreamed up in the twisted mind of the White Wizard and brought into creation by dark magic and an army of mindless Orc slaves. The machines of war did not halt for the poor weather.

Inside, in the dry, Saruman, master of Orthanc, was disquieted. These days, controlled and ruled by the Shadow to which he was allied, should have been a blessing. Under Sauron's ever-watchful reign, he should have felt secure. And yet more and more these days he felt his mind troubled, his wearied body resigned to pacing out his anxieties.

He paused at the window, glancing out at the raging storm battering his lands. Unsettled weather echoed his mood. He was restless again. Not like he had been months ago when the Nazgul had come for him but still, he could not remain in any one place for longer than a minute.

From his high window, Saruman saw four riders approaching, racing along the gravel path up to the entrance to the tower he resided in. He frowned, squinting through the glass and the haze of rain to identify his visitors. Undoubtedly they were allies of the Enemy – Men, he guessed, from the clumsy way they rode. Saruman fumed at this. How dare Sauron send such lowly servants to him, his most powerful ally.

Egotistical it may have been to think in such a way – that he remained above all others in Sauron's army – but the White Wizard did not care. It angered him to be thought so little of and he paced again, fists clenched tightly. In the distance, he heard a door slam.

"What?" he snapped irritably upon the knock from his door a few moments later.

The doors were unceremoniously flung open and four men entered in silence to stand before his desk. Saruman watched them, water dripping from their sopping clothes onto the grey flagstones as they stood waiting for him to formally acknowledge their presence. Stood in his study, so blatantly unconcerned that they stared into the face of one of the infamous Istari, Saruman's anger grew.

"What do you want?" the Wizard demanded, cold eyes glaring unflinchingly at the Men.

"We were sent by the Dark Lord. He wants you," one of the men spoke in thick, accented Westron. The accent was easily identifiable to one who was well acquainted to the lands of Men as being from Dunland.

"To do what?"

Glancing uncertainly at one another for the first time, as if they had not anticipated the query, one replied, "I do not know."

Saruman smiled grimly as he perched on his chair, building up the air of natural superiority around him to further unsettle these Men. "I am relieved that you are so very well-informed of your mission here. What an asset to the Shadow you must be."

"Our mission is to escort you to Barad-dur."

"Mordor? I am not going to Mordor."

"The Dark Lord commands it."

"For what purpose?"

They would not answer, he knew, because so lowly an escort would not have been told the details of the Dark Lord's plans and they would not have the sense to enquire. What could Sauron possibly be thinking? He couldn't go to Mordor. Stepping out of his tower was always a chore that he had come to abhor. Going to Mordor was simply inconceivable. And yet he could not disobey an order from the one who held his very life in his cold, dead hand. He was, after all, only as powerful as Sauron allowed him to be, no matter how much that fact frustrated Saruman. Despite all his bravado, he was like all the other servants - under Sauron's complete control.

Muttering a curse under his breath, the Wizard rose to his feet, his joints creaking with age, stiffness, aggravated by the damp weather. Walking to the window again, Saruman sighed heavily then told the four to prepare to leave. He offered them no respite nor chance to dry off before they left again. Let them stand there uncomfortable whilst he made himself ready for what lay ahead.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. Maybe this would work to his advantage, prove his undying allegiance to the Dark Lord's will, then at least he would have a chance of getting himself a far more respectable slice of power and they would be on a more equal footing – just as it should be.

**OIOI**

Awareness tugged at his foggy senses, disturbed the blissful peace of his sleep. He opened his eyes rather surprised that he had at some point during the night fallen into true sleep, but it still took a moment for his vision to adjust to the darkness. After a minute, he could make out the shape of Aragorn sleeping soundly next to him, protected from the rain by his blanket. Legolas could also hear Ciaran's steady breathing on his other side and he was glad that the boy was resting in sleep, undisturbed by the nightmares he feared. It was not either one of the men who had awoken him.

Brushing aside his blanket, Legolas propped himself up on his elbows and looked around the resting camp. Apart from a couple of men patrolling the edges of the camp, everything seemed quiet. So what, then, had woken him?

Now that he was up, Legolas knew that rest would not return easily. Wrapping the now damp blanket around his shoulders, he got to his feet, being careful not to wake Aragorn or Ciaran as he did so. No fire burned this night as the drizzle that made them all feel totally miserable rendered it almost impossible to spark a flame let alone keep it alight. He made his way around the camp to enquire as to any activity from the sentries.

"Prince Legolas," one of them said when they saw his approach.

"Has there been anything out of the ordinary?" Legolas asked, for now ignoring the fact that one of the Men had used his proper title.

"Out of the ordinary?"

Legolas shrugged, "Anything?"

"Not that we have seen, sir."

Finding himself not particularly comforted by this, Legolas looked around again, searching for…He didn't know what. There just remained this feeling in the back of his mind that something wasn't quite right. Over the years, he had come to trust his instincts.

"All right. Thank you."

Adjusting the blanket around his shoulders, Legolas turned to go back to his sleeping place. Clearly nothing was obviously wrong. Perhaps he was just tired, imagining things.

As he did so though, movement caught his eye. He thought at first that it was Aragorn or Ciaran getting up, perhaps in search of him, but as he made his way back to his spot, he noticed that whoever it was moving around was rifling through his bag. He'd taught Aragorn well; the boy would not go through his things without permission and Ciaran would have no cause to. Silent feet served him well in terms of stealth as he approached.

The moment Legolas saw for certain that it was not Ciaran or Aragorn or anyone else he knew, the Elf broke into a run. When he saw the man – for it _was_ a man and not some twisted creature of the Shadow amongst them – pull out a large, round object wrapped tightly in two old, ruined shirts, Legolas could stand to idly watch the intrusion no longer.

"Hey!" he shouted in warning.

The intruder looked up, startled by the Elf's shout, unexpected through the quiet as it was. Then, holding the stolen object close, he raced off into the darkness, not having anticipated the Elf's return.

"What?" Aragorn sat up abruptly at his guardian's sharp yell of warning. Half asleep, Aragorn barely had time to register Legolas passing by, he was running so fast. By now, others had woken, disturbed by the noise around the previously quiet camp, murmuring in question about what was going on. Wasting no time, Aragorn dashed to his feet and hared off after Legolas.

"Damn it!" Legolas cursed loudly, looking all about himself but seeing only darkness. The intruder had escaped him, hidden by the night.

Out of breath, Aragorn finally caught up with him and immediately noticed the look of panic on his guardian's face. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Legolas though, was already running back to camp, although he found that he was hindered a little by people now stood, milling around in an effort to see what the disturbance was all about. Legolas ignored their questions though, pushed through them as he headed straight for the place where he had slept earlier.

"Get out of the way," the Elf snapped sharply at Ciaran as he went, like Aragorn, to ask what was happening. Grabbing his bag, Legolas fought to see its contents in the dark, checking that what he had seen was indeed true. Despite longing for all this to have been a mistake, his search proved fruitless and he slammed the bag down hard on the ground with a loud expletive.

"What is going on?" demanded Eomer, also disturbed by all the commotion and now standing over Legolas.

"Eomer, get your men searching the area. I want everyone out looking."

"Looking for what?"

Getting up, holding his twin knives in his hands, Legolas hastily described what he was searching for. "A man, about five feet, five inches tall, wearing a light blue shirt, black trousers, dark jacket. He ran west not two minutes ago. Fan out and find him."

"Why?"

"Just follow the order!" Legolas snapped impatiently, moving off again, shoving past Eomer as he went. He would not mention anything to the Rohan man just yet, not wanting him to experience the same panic that he was currently feeling; it would only hinder his efforts in finding the thief.

Sighing, Eomer, resigned to the fact that Legolas was not going to let this one go or explain his actions, went to start the search for this vague description of a man provided by Legolas.

As Legolas had expected of the search, it proved pointless. All night they searched, until the pale light of dawn lit the flat plains. His concern grew with every passing minute. Questions came at him constantly about what was going on, about why he was so determined to get this one man back. What did it matter, they asked, if someone decided to break ranks? It was one less mouth to feed so why worry? But he could not answer them. Panic thumped hard in his chest, making concentrating on the task of the search he had insisted upon difficult. This hunt though, was useless. The search party could not stray too far from the camp for fear of leaving the innocents of Rohan unprotected and defenceless against any threat and surely the thief would not be so foolish as to hang about after he had been caught in the act.

"Legolas?" Aragorn caught up with his mentor, the first time he had seen him since Legolas had ordered the finding of the mysterious intruder.

"Not now, Aragorn."

"Yes, now. What is all this about? You have everyone in an uproar. No one knows what is going on."

How could he refuse to answer the questions of his ward? Of anyone here, Aragorn most deserved to know the truth. So, he pulled his young charge away from the others so that they couldn't be overheard by anyone else, and he reluctantly explained, "That man, whoever he was, stole the Palantir."

"What?"

"Keep your voice down," Legolas reminded him, laying his hand on Aragorn's shoulder to lead him away from a group of gathered men.

"He took the Seeing Stone?"

"Yes. Stole it."

"Wait. You mean to say that you have been carrying that thing around with you all this time?" The thought made Aragorn shudder; the memory of that evening five months ago in Edoras when he had first gazed upon that stone being stirred up at its mere mention.

"Of course," Legolas answered, not understanding his incredulity. "You didn't think I would leave it in Meduseld did you; an object as powerful as this?"

"Best place for it."

"It could prove a valuable tool that may well work in our favour."

"That's why you're so worried?"

"Someone stole the Seeing Stone from us, which means that someone _wants_ it. Whatever it's worth to us, I don't wish to see it fall once more in Enemy hands, do you?"

"Hang on." Aragorn dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in close to his mentor. "Someone wanted the Stone. They were planning to take it from us. That means…"

"There was a traitor in our midst," Legolas confirmed for him.

Stunned by this development, it took a moment to process exactly what this meant. A second after that initial shock had worn off, questions flooded Aragorn's mind. "All this time there has been a spy amongst us," he started off with. "The Enemy will know everything; every detail of our plans, our numbers, resources. A spy would not fail to recount all this to the Shadow." It was a deeply troubling thought. The consequences of this could be immense. "How do we know that if there was one there isn't more?"

"We don't know."

"That is not a reassuring thought."

"No, it's not."

"Legolas…"

"We need to find this man and we're not going to do that by simply combing the area."

"Than what should we be doing?" asked Aragorn in concern.

Legolas went immediately to answer but then thought better of it and instead thoughtfully asked, "What do you think we should do?"

Something this important, Aragorn didn't think it right that Legolas pass the decision over to him in his relative inexperience, yet confidence shone in the Elf's eyes, encouraging him to at least try. "Um, find out if anyone from the Rangers or Rohirrim is missing. Maybe if we had a name it might help."

Legolas smiled proudly at him then nodded in agreement. "Yes. Go give the order to Eomer."

"Me?"

"Aragorn, we haven't time to…"

"All right." Now was not the time to mess around, Aragorn knew. The sooner he gave the order, the sooner they could get back that most invaluable tool that had been stolen from them. "Eomer, Legolas wants a full head-count of everyone – Ranger and Rohirrim – to discover who's missing."

Eomer sighed heavily; how he wished the Elf would make up his mind what he wanted and stick to it. "Fine. Talk to Janor about the Rangers." Not waiting for a response from the man, Eomer hurried off, at the same time calling to retrieve his search party.

"Right."

Janor was also just returning to the came but Legolas had already caught him and was demanding, rather impatiently, that he account for every one of his people. How well Aragorn understood that side of Legolas – demanding and brusque. He'd come to know those traits in his guardian very well, although perhaps he'd toned down this somewhat after the Helm's Deep fiasco. True, it was not really in Legolas' nature to be passive.

"Fine, I'm doing it," Janor finally snapped, pushing past the Elf. As he passed, he muttered, "If you'd just stop yelling at me."

Legolas sighed and went to sit, but then thought better of it and began pacing back and forth instead. He was restless. His mind kept going back to that Stone, which could even now be on its way back into Enemy hands. Sauron would consider it a victory against the Light to take something so potentially valuable from them when they really needed it.

It only took Janor a couple of minutes to confirm that none of the Rangers were missing. Despite knowing that it would take Eomer longer, given that there were by far more Rohirrim to account for, Legolas found himself having to check himself from going over to the man, shaking him and demanding answers right now. Given that he remained constantly out of favour with the commander, he decided against such rash action. So, he resigned himself to pacing and practising the art of patience. Once, he would have found this an easy feat. It had been trained into him in his youth, an imperative trait in a prince who would act as a commander, a negotiator, and ambassador for his kingdom. And back then it had always been so simple. But now, things had changed so much that all hints of forbearance had long since disappeared.

"We have one missing," Eomer declared, startling Legolas out of his thoughts as they wandered.

"Who?" asked Legolas, Aragorn and Janor all in the same instant.

Pushing aside his surprise and indignance, Eomer shook his head and calmly said, "A man named Grima. He's a helper with the healers."

"Not a warrior?" Legolas asked in genuine surprise.

"No, nor a spy," the man shot back, offended by what was being implied. "Our people are not corrupt."

"And yet one of them stole from me."

"My apologies, Prince Legolas. I'll reimburse you," Eomer growled, once more stepping up for the inevitable confrontation that would follow.

"Comforting as your generosity is, Commander, what was taken cannot be replaced."

Eomer looked from Legolas to Aragorn, who both wore grave expressions upon their faces; this was more serious than a few stolen possessions. "What was taken?" Once more, uncertain glances were exchanged between guardian and ward, only making the commander even more suspicious. Knowing that he was more likely to get answers from the Elf than the young man, Eomer turned to Legolas and demanded, "What did he take?"

"The Palantir."

All colour immediately drained from Eomer's face. That the Seeing Stone had been stolen from them was not as troubling to him as the fact that Legolas had brought it with him from Meduseld where it had been locked away and, in Eomer's opinion, should have stayed. He hated that thing more than anything.

"You took that thing from me, stole it out of my home?" the man asked quietly.

"I could not leave it. It's important, Eomer, too important to leave behind and too important to allow to fall back into Enemy hands.

"That thing is evil."

"Maybe. But we have to get it back. Tell me about this Grima."

Although he found that he wanted to argue with Legolas some more – always the most favourable option in Eomer's opinion – he instead decided to answer Legolas' request. "We picked him up on the Plains of Rohan…three years ago. He's quiet, keeps to himself. He expressed an interest in healing so Valon started training him up as an assistant. Unfortunately, he wasn't very good at it and got demoted to general lackey. As far as I know he's never been in any trouble."

"You barely noticed him?"

"I don't take note of every single person who falls under our care."

Legolas sighed and then chuckled under his breath. "And to think, when we first met you were so paranoid about spies. You didn't even notice one amongst your own people."

"Hey!" Eomer exclaimed in indignation.

"Legolas, that's unnecessary," put in Janor, trying to placate the hot-headed pair.

Already Eomer had his mouth open to argue some more but this time it was Legolas who called to a halt any fight that may have been brewing, putting his hands up and reasoning, "We have more important things to worry about right now, like tracking down this…Grima and bringing back the Palantir."

Deflated, the Commander of the Rohirrim nodded. "Fine. What do you propose we do?"

Legolas had already had chance to consider his next course of action. "We know the general direction he headed in. We should use Kalub to track him down."

"Right then. When do we move out?"

"No. Aragorn and I will go. Eomer, you continue to lead the Men on towards Gondor. Do you have a map?"

Outright ignoring the Elf's request, Eomer stared long at Legolas, then came the blast of anger. "You're going off on your own? Are you completely mad?"

"Not completely."

Laughter exploded from the Rohan commander but it was mocking rather than mirthful. "You're going off with no backup." He looked to Aragorn, who honestly seemed just as surprised by Legolas' declaration as anyone else. "You're going to get yourselves killed or captured."

"Doing what?" demanded Legolas. "We are only going after this man and the longer we delay the harder our task will become. Aragorn, get ready to leave."

Eomer looked towards the younger man, half hoping that Aragorn would stand up to his guardian for once and contradict his order, and Eomer rather suspected that a part of Legolas was hoping for that too, for the boy to show some display of defiance or leadership. However, Aragorn made no move to counter Legolas' order and instead sighed then went to do as asked.

"Fine. Go get yourself killed. I don't care."

"Your sentiment is touching, Commander," Legolas observed blandly. Turning to Janor, he asked, "I still need a tracker. Can I take Kalub with me?"

"Yes, of course."

"Map," announced Eomer, tossing a rolled-up, tatty bit of paper at Legolas.

"You remember the route we planned?" he asked of the man, glancing up from observing the map, noting the landmarks nearby. "Carry along that route. Do not deviate. We'll find Grima, get back the Stone and then hurry to catch you up."

"That's your great plan?"

"Yes. We'll reach you before you get to Gondor. Do you think you can remember that, or should I write it down for you?"

"I'll try," ground out Eomer, not taking too kindly to the quip.

"Cheer up, Commander. You should be pleased. After months of wishing you are finally getting rid of me."

As the Elf got up and moved past him, Eomer nodded, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "That is one up-side I had not considered."

**To Be Continued…**


	49. Truth And Deception

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed and everyone who is still reading this story. I hope you all enjoy the chapter.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 49 – Truth And Deception **

"Can I just…?"

"No."

"But…"

"Silence."

Silence lasted no longer than half a minute before Aragorn could not help himself and spoke up again. "Can I just note that we have been searching for Grima for two weeks now and we are no closer to finding him? He is probably long gone by now. We're wasting our time."

Legolas looked up at him sternly, not happy with his ward's, admittedly fairly accurate appraisal of their situation. Nevertheless, he sighed heavily. "I know."

"We should go back, catch up with Eomer and the others."

"Probably."

His guardian did not sound entirely convinced, however. He was determined to find the creature who had stolen a weapon that could change the outcome of their campaign. It was both admirable and yet frustrating at the same time.

"And yet, we're still here, searching for someone long since disappeared."

"Evidently. Stop complaining."

"If anyone cares, I'm with the boy on this one," Kalub put in suddenly from the darkness opposite Legolas.

"Nobody cares," Legolas answered sharply.

"We're a very inclusive, democratic little group; it's good to know."

Rolling his eyes in exasperation at both men, Legolas laid down on the ground, folding his hands neatly over his stomach. "If you two have finished I'm going to sleep."

The conversation was ended at this so Kalub also laid down, falling asleep within minutes as he always did, and Aragorn sat watching the black spot where he knew his guardian reclined, even though it was too dark to see anything at all. Now that they had left the presence of the other Men, Legolas had happily reverted back to their old ways – long days and little rest and no fire to sleep beside at night. Despite being robbed of the relative comforts of the Ranger and Rohirrim camps, Aragorn found himself actually liking the return to simplicity. Which was more than could be said for their unenthusiastic tracker.

Kalub, unused to the ways of the two companions, had done nothing but complain about everything he could think of – the pace, the places they chose to rest when Legolas consented for them to halt, the lack of fire to banish the autumn chill in the air. Bad-tempered at the best of times, the man's mood had steadily degenerated over the past fortnight, increasing the tension between the three travellers, especially where Legolas was concerned. With little patience to begin with, Legolas' mood had declined in the same manner as the other man until the tension had grown to the point of being palpable and uncomfortable.

Typically short on tolerance, Legolas found the constant whining Kalub subjected them to extremely irksome, just as he had done when Aragorn, as a child, had complained and questioned regularly whilst on the road. Unfortunately, Aragorn found the whole thing at times highly amusing, shooting knowing looks in his mentor's direction whenever Kalub's back was turned. As well as amusement, he had to admit a certain amount of pleasure at Legolas' irritation. It felt good that it was not aimed at him for a change.

As the night passed, Aragorn fell to sleep at last. Having declared that there was no need to set a watch as three of them would be nowhere near as conspicuous as hundreds of Rohirrim all moving together, Legolas had encouraged his companions to take the chance to rest when they stopped and both men had eagerly taken up that opportunity, needing the sleep after the Elf's attempts to push them as hard as possible during the day.

Dawn came quickly and the three made no delay in getting on the move again. There was a different feeling in the air now. Impatience, the enduring need to keep moving. It made them all oddly anxious and jittery.

"So, how much longer do you think this is going to take? He could be anywhere. We should just call it a failure and get back to the others, you know, where it's safe," suggested Kalub as they got moving without bothering to pause to eat rations from their packs.

"Scared?" Legolas teased as he picked up their pace further.

"Not at all. Just trying to be realistic about this. He's one man, obviously on a mission, who has thousands of leagues to hide in. He could be heading anywhere and using almost any route to get there. It's impossible."

"You're an optimist, you know that?" chuckled Aragorn. He liked Kalub. More so now than he ever had when they were running with the Rangers.

"I'm being a realist."

"Well, stop it. It's annoying."

Kalub rolled his eyes at Legolas. "Just trying to make conversation."

"Keep your eyes on the ground."

"Despite not having even a shred of confidence in me, Legolas, I know my skill better than you ever will and I am perfectly capable of doing my job and holding a civilised conversation at the same time."

"Glad as I am to hear that, please concentrate."

"I am concentrating. Tell him, Aragorn."

Bored now with the tracker's persistent badgering of his guardian and Legolas' decisions to always engage him in his arguments, Aragorn sighed, "Legolas, he is concentrating. Can you tell him to shut up now?"

"You tell him. You're the one with the power to order him," Legolas informed his ward, only serving to irritate both Aragorn and Kalub further. That happy banter was starting to annoy all of them.

"Great. Thank you."

"What is that?"

"You tell me, you're the focused tracker here," muttered the Elf under his breath.

"I'm serious," Kalub told him before jogging a little way ahead of them to get a better look at what had caught his sharp eye in the distance.

"He just knew that I had bested him," Legolas reasoned quietly to his ward.

"Sure he did."

"Legolas!"

All hint of joviality was gone in an instant when Legolas saw Kalub a few feet away, his face pale, weapons now in his hand, ready for action. It didn't matter that he teased Kalub with his doubts about Men's capabilities. Despite all that, he knew the man to be good at his job and he knew when to take an alarm call seriously. As he ran, Legolas also armed himself, knowing the look on Kalub's face all too well. When he reached the tracker, he realised why he wore the expression of horror.

Crude wooden spikes protruded from the soggy ground, atop which sat the many decomposing and stripped Human and Orkish heads. Warnings. Warnings they were very familiar with.

"We have to leave," Legolas immediately told him, noting how Aragorn was nodding in complete agreement with that sentiment before he had even completed the sentence. The young man had in the past seen up close the dire consequences of ignoring such warnings and had no desire to see it again. "We have to go right now."

"Yes. Except Grima's tracks still lead in that direction."

"He walked straight through territory controlled by crazy people?"

"Well, I'd imagine he ran, but…"

"We can't go this way."

Aragorn put in definitively, "No, we cannot."

To steady his antsy ward, Legolas laid his hand on Aragorn's shoulder and squeezed gently, asking Kalub, "If we went around, do you think you could pick up Grima's trail again?"

"This territory could go on for leagues and we've no clue which way Grima went. Finding him again could prove problematic and time consuming. By the time we caught up with him again it could be too late," Kalub answered more professionally than Legolas had ever heard him speak before.

"Judging from these tracks," Legolas glanced to the vague footprints in the mud, easily recognisable as Grima's to one who knew what they were looking for, "how far ahead of us would you say he is?"

Thinking for a moment, Kalub deliberated, drawing on his years of experience to determine how much time had passed since the tracks had been made in the muddy ground. "No more than an hour I would guess."

It was a tough choice. Venturing into land that was clearly populated by dangerous Men was extraordinarily risky. And yet it might just be worth the risk if it meant retrieving the Palantir.

"We should go through."

Legolas raised his head, startled by his ward's unexpected decision and apparent willingness to suddenly speak up. Given that Aragorn had already suffered much at the hands of the dangerous Wild Men who left such marks around their territory, it was even more of a surprise that he was willing to go anywhere near them again. However, there was much at stake now and Legolas found that his heart filled with pride that his ward was finally able to see that and put aside his own fears for what would eventually prove to be the greater good.

"You heard him," Legolas told Kalub sharply when the tracker started to protest.

With a dejected sigh, the older man agreed, "Whatever you say."

"Keep your eyes open and your weapons to hand."

"Good advice. Don't know how I would have managed without it," Kalub muttered sarcastically in a low voice. It wasn't like any of them were going to be letting their guard down around such perilous parts.

As Legolas boldly followed the Ranger after the tracks left by the mercifully clumsy Grima, he realised that Aragorn was not next to him and he turned to find the boy standing with a haunted look in his eyes and his hand delving deep into the left pocket of his jacket.

"Aragorn, come." Upon his mentor's firm command, Aragorn blinked as if woken from deep thought and took a step forward into enemy territory. Slowly, reluctantly, he withdrew his hand from his pocket, rubbing his fingers together as they tingled slightly with some unknown force. "All will be well," Legolas assured as the two fell into step together.

"Right," Kalub shot back, "we'll see how long that optimism holds out."

**OIOI**

"Something is not right," Aragorn breathed nervously as they moved with all possible caution and speed through the lands controlled by the Wild Men.

Usually, Legolas would have sharply berated him for his pessimistic commentary, only making everyone around him nervous, but this time he could not do so as he felt just as on edge as the young man. Even fully armed and alert as they were there was no guarantee that they would not run into trouble and end up on the wrong side of the rabid, insane, cannibalistic Humans. Scattered around, planted deep into the ground, which had changed from saturated mud to pure white stone some time ago, were various grisly reminders to any travellers brave or stupid enough to venture into such accursed territory; remains of ill-fated victims who, clearly having missed, or, more worryingly for the three latest intruders, blatantly ignored the multiple warnings spread out around the territory, had fallen into Enemy hands and ended up themselves as trophies and visual lessons to the foolish or the daring.

"Maybe we should turn back," Kalub suggested uncertainly in a whisper, his bravado having long since drained away as they progressed through the gruesome exhibition of horrors. Despite his reticence to continue, the tracker kept his sharp eyes trained to the ground, following the footprints and disturbed soil.

"We're here now. Turning back is pointless," reasoned the Elf.

"But perhaps safer."

"Just remain vigilant."

Vigilance was not a problem. Eager as he was to retreat from this dire place, Kalub was keeping his eyes on the trail left by the fleeing traitor so he could move as fast as possible and not make any mistakes along the way that could delay them. They were making excellent progress. And yet, for all of them, it seemed not quick enough.

"Wait," Legolas said suddenly, his arm shooting out and grabbing ahold of Kalub, who walked beside him, to draw him to a halt.

Already skittish given their current position, Aragorn's eyes darted around, panicked. "What?" he demanded. "What's wrong?"

"Someone's coming. Hide."

With no further questions and protestations, the three of them ran to a cluster of grey-white rocks nearby, one of several groupings that had given the travellers no end of concern for fear that enemies could be concealing behind. Now it proved a blessing. They hurried behind the rocks, trusting that Legolas was able to determine which direction the people moving towards them were coming from. Crouched low, they waited. Aragorn hardly dared to breathe through the fear of detection.

To soothe his ward, Legolas gripped his shoulder tight. But it was the feel of warm gold hidden snugly in his pocket that calmed Aragorn's fears more effectively than the support of his guardian. He closed his eyes, listened to the sound of his heart beating in his chest, in perfect synch with the gentle pulse of the gold band. It sang to him. Reliable as it always was, panic fled his heart only to be replaced with warmth; a peace flooded him unlike nothing he'd ever experienced before. Obscured beneath this ocean of perfect calm and peace raged a deep raged a deep, roiling darkness, only just in Aragorn's awareness. He shied away from it though, not wanting to see what lay beyond the more appealing feeling of security the Ring presented him with. Perhaps this was not so bad after all.

A strong squeeze on his shoulder, almost to the point of being painful, dragged Aragorn from his tranquil repose and he almost snapped in anger at Legolas for interrupting.

The intense concern burning in Legolas' eyes brought Aragorn back to his senses and he pulled out his hand from his pocket, immediately feeling the sense of peace and anger at his guardian dissipated to be replaced by the more appropriate sense of anxiety at being in Enemy territory. He blinked in confusion, clearing his mind.

There was no opportunity at that moment for Legolas to enquire what exactly was the matter with his ward – although he had his suspicions.

Sitting silently, waiting for the feeling of danger to pass proved hard to bear. All was quiet although a thick sense of expectation hung in the air. It was making the three of them tense, ready to snap at the slightest sign of danger. Realistically, this was a risky state to be in. Such tension made them reckless and that was how performance in battle slipped.

"Do not move."

That instruction was hardly necessary; they were frozen already.

"Slowly, drop your weapons to the ground and raise your hands above your heads."

Despite the voice being thickly and strangely accented, it was authoritative and clear in its demands. It was not the words that in the end convinced Aragorn and Legolas to follow the commands though, it was the touch of cold, sharp steel to the napes of their necks; weapons perfectly positioned to kill.

Shifting his eyes over to his two companions, Legolas realised that there were two ways to go on this. Aragorn, nervous already, had lowered his weapon, although did not entirely relinquish it as commanded, whilst Kalub was gripping the handle of his sword so tightly that his knuckles were white from the strain; he was ready to launch an attack as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

On this occasion, however, Legolas believed it best to err on the side of caution, take Aragorn's safer route.

Both Men were discreetly looking at him for an answer on what to do. With a short nod of his head, Legolas had them disarm. As instructed, they each let their weapons drop to the ground before them and raised their hands where their attackers could see them.

"Good. Do exactly as you're told and you might just live through this," the voice told them.

Legolas searched his recollection to try to place the distinctive, rather exotic accent but came up with nothing. His main goal right then though was to determine exactly how dangerous this man was. Immediately, he dismissed the idea of him being one of the Wild Men. This man spoke with intelligence and rationality, two things that the twisted Wild Men generally lacked.

"Now, you are going to be blindfolded. Keep calm and do as I ask and you will be treated with respect, fight and we will become forceful," explained the voice with impeccable calm.

"Who is 'we'?" Legolas dared to enquire, turning his head slightly to the side in the hope of catching a glimpse of his attacker.

Immediately, the sword-point at Legolas' neck was pressed closer and he instinctively froze again. The voice now held a sharp warning, more threatening than it had been so far. "Do not look at us. Keep your eyes lowered to the ground. All of you. Your questions can wait until we deem it appropriate that they be answered. Do you understand this?"

"Yes."

Kalub shot the Elf a brief, disbelieving look but Legolas was unconcerned by it. Right then his aim was to remain cool and not inflame the anger of the men with the weapons. He did exactly as asked, dipping his head and keeping his eyes directed toward the ground. So far, this educated man with the strange accent had been unfailingly polite and reasonable and Legolas was not about to give him any excuse to change that tact. Had these people wanted them dead, he guessed they would be already.

As they had been instructed would happen, blindfolds were tied around each of their heads, gently and respectfully, covering their eyes. All three were warriors by training and being so incapacitated was incredibly uncomfortable. They did not like being rendered powerless. But, under Legolas' instruction, they remained calm.

Legolas heard three sets of footsteps, two heavy and clumsy, the other softer, moving around them. Then more steps came towards them. Not one of them spoke; they didn't want to give their identities away.

The spokesman for these people, his voice now coming from in front of Legolas, said, "Place your hands together behind your backs. You are going to be tied up at the wrists. Please do not struggle."

A short nod came from Legolas in acceptance. Roughly, a rope was bound around his wrists. Apparently, the well-spoken man's heavy-footed companions were not quite so well-mannered when it came to handling the intruders into their land. Once they had been restrained Aragorn, Legolas and Kalub were dragged to their feet without fair warning. They were shoved into the correct direction and pressed to walk on. For the first few steps, the two blindfolded Men stumbled, disorientated at walking and not being able to see where they were going or treading. Only Legolas remained unfazed, using his other senses to compensate for his lack of sight.

They walked for a while before finally they were brought to a halt and once again pushed down onto their knees.

"Any idea where we are?" whispered Aragorn to either Legolas or Kalub, both equally capable of answering.

"No," both answered in the most maddening way to Aragorn.

The calm voice returned in front of them, informing the three, "Your blindfolds will now be removed. The light is dim; it will not hurt your eyes."

As promised, the pieces of cloth were indeed removed from their eyes although they remained tied up. The light was dim for it was evening by now.

Legolas blinked rapidly, allowing a moment for his vision to adjust fully despite the minor change. Then he looked upwards and, for the first time, set his eyes upon their 'host'. The man was immediately impressive to behold. He was by no means a big man, shorter by a good couple of inches than Aragorn but nevertheless he was intimidating to behold. Dressed in unusually pristine burgundy-coloured clothing, fine black cloth swathed his head and covered all but his eyes, sleek and perfectly-maintained weapons hung from a polished black belt tied around his middle.

Unfortunately, Legolas could tell little of where they had been led to, only that they remained in roughly the same area as the mud was dotted with smooth white rock and in the distance he could just make out another grisly, territorial warning.

The man took a step backwards and then sat primly down on a nearby rock, watching his captives with fiercely intelligent, dark eyes. "You have questions."

"Yes," Legolas agreed, taking a moment to check that both Kalub and Aragorn were well next to him. Both looked unharmed and indeed Aragorn nodded once to reassure his guardian that he was unhurt. Kalub, on the other hand, was attempting to disentangle his wrists from the rope and at the same time was glaring daggers at their captors. "Who are you and why did you attack us?"

"We did not attack." The man leant forward, clasping black-gloved hands in front of him so they rested on his lap. "Have we so far been anything but civil towards you?"

"Tying us up and blindfolding us are not actions I would acquaint with civility," pointed out Kalub, a comment that may have sounded perfectly justifiable had it come from Legolas' much calmer voice but the accusing growl from the tracker sounded unnecessarily confrontational given the strange had been exceedingly polite and restrained thus far.

"Many spies travel these lands." He spread his hands then and even though his face was mostly covered with dark cloth it was obvious that he was smiling. "You can forgive us our caution."

Kalub looked away in disgust, muttering a filthy curse, whereas Legolas merely nodded in understanding. As a commander, Legolas knew that he would probably have done the same thing.

"You believe us to be spies?" Legolas asked of the man.

"What other cause would you have for skulking around these lands?"

Lying to this man was an appealing way out. But this was no brainless man of the wilds; he was smart, quick-witted. Surely, he would see through any attempts at deception. So honesty really was the only way to go in this case.

"We were searching for…someone," Legolas finally answered; still cagey about giving out too many details to these people he knew nothing of. Perhaps 'partial truths' were best.

"Ah." Dark eyes twinkled almost in amusement. "One of your own gone missing?"

"A defector," Legolas clarified shortly.

"I see. And you are trying to track him down?"

"That is why we are here. Kalub is a tracker."

"Which one is Kalub?" the man asked, his eyes shifting along the line knelt before him.

"The grouchy one," Legolas answered immediately, nodding his head in Kalub's direction, having to fight a smile at the tracker's furious expression at his blunt description of him.

"And this…defector, he wouldn't happen to be about my height, black hair, pasty complexion?" the man asked.

For an answer, Legolas looked to his companions. In all his time travelling with the Rohirrim, he could only put names to three faces: Eomer, Eowyn and the healer Valon. He had no clue who Grima was even after Eomer had described him in detail. Aragorn had always been the more personable and surely with the tracker's sharp eyes Kalub had noticed the traitor who had sat amongst them all this time.

Indeed, it was Kalub who confirmed it for the man. "That sounds like him – if you add slimy to the description."

The man nodded slowly, eyes narrowing slightly as if struggling to come to his decision. Legolas waited patiently for him to work it out even though he was brimming with questions as to how this strange man knew of their missing traitor.

Eventually, the man got to his feet with grace Legolas would usually have equated with the Elven race, and waved to one of his companions. After a moment, the sound of struggling came and from behind a rock appeared, most surprisingly, the man known as Grima, blindfolded and gagged and bound, was dragged fighting against two Dwarves holding him firmly. Legolas didn't honestly know what he had expected less – seeing Grima under the arrest of these strangers or that the people holding him were of the Dwarven race, a race widely believed to be all but extinct.

"Is this your traitor?" the man asked, glancing briefly back at the bound man.

Grima raised his head, pausing at the accusation. A muffled protestation went entirely ignored by everyone around him.

"Yes, that is him," confirmed the Ranger's tracker.

"How is it that you have him?" Legolas asked of their captors.

"We found him trying to cross this land. We apprehended him, asked him some questions about his reasons for trespassing. He gave us no information then tried to run and so we restrained him thusly." The man moved with long, confident strides to stand before his three prostrate prisoners. "Why exactly is he running from you?"

"Because he stole something from me," Legolas answered, shooting a gaze burning with anger in Grima's direction.

"What did he steal?"

This, Legolas was not going to answer candidly. He did not want this man he knew nothing of to know all about the Seeing Stone he had once possessed. He instead went for a vague, annoyingly enigmatic answer. "Something of great value to us."

"Is that so?" The man was sharp enough to know when not to push for an answer; when it would prove a pointless waste of energy. He sensed strength and great determination, stubbornness in the blonde man bound and knelt passively before him. He might have looked cowed but looks could be deceptive, he knew. Very much like himself, the robed man realised with a hint of pleasure. It had been a long time since he felt he'd come across one equal to him. Intriguing was the best word he could come up with to describe the situation which was now unexpectedly unfolding before him.

Getting the definite sense that something had changed within this strange man who stood before him, Legolas cocked his head to one side and asked, "Did you find…anything on him when you arrested him?"

The man paced a couple of times in front of them, weighing up his options. Then he nodded softly, decision made, and answered with a smile. "He carried a bag stuffed full of dried food, which I assume he stole from you also, some of the scruffiest clothes I have ever seen in my life and a large ball of solid stone infused with what I know to be the darkest of dark magics."

Legolas stared openly, startled somewhat by this man's flippancy regarding the importance of the Palantir he had found completely by chance; for he could tell by the glint in the man's dark eyes that he knew exactly how important that 'large ball of solid stone' was. Less surprised was Legolas that this man of obvious knowledge and cunning knew of the Palantir's dark magic. Despite his seeming – comparatively - few years on the earth, he was wise. In these times, youth did not necessary mean lack of wisdom it seemed.

Still, he needed confirmation before he said anything more, so he pressed, "You know what it is you have in your possession?"

"I do."

Aragorn spoke up for the first time. "How do you know?" Anything that involved the Isengard Seeing Stone made him feel extremely uneasy, propelling him to ask the question. It concerned him that this strangely dressed man seemed to know a fair amount about the Palantir and did not seem overly startled by the fact.

"The Stones are hardly a great secret," their captor told them cryptically, a smile in his dark exposed eyes. "One hears all sorts of things…when one takes the initiative to listen."

It was not exactly the succinct reply Aragorn had been hoping for so he looked to his guardian to take over once more.

"Spies? You're spies?" Legolas asked bluntly of their captors, making his distaste for the profession plainly known despite the fact that he knew he was hardly in a position to be making such bold accusations.

Laughter spilled easily from behind dark cloth. "Nothing so conspiratorial. We listen closely to all those willing to talk. Not all the allied lands are wholly loyal to the Shadow."

The implication was clear to Legolas and he stared for a long moment in shock. When he finally spoke it was tainted with surprise rather than anger. "You are defectors. Allies of the Shadow turned."

"That is correct."

"What?!" exclaimed Kalub loudly despite his silent pledge to himself to keep quiet. Disloyal these people may have been to the Dark Lord but they were nevertheless tainted by the Shadow, once having been held within its jaws. It was a discomforting thought indeed that such men walked free on the earth. And now he too was in their clutches.

Far from protesting at the fact that he was being held by those once allied to the forces of the Shadow, Legolas held his head high and said, "That is an exceptionally dangerous object you have taken and it rightfully belongs to us. We would like it back, if you will."

"Would you now?" chuckled the man, passing in front of them. "I see no reason to surrender such a valuable tool to you."

"It belongs to us."

"But you let it go."

Aragorn piped up, protesting impatiently, "We did not 'let' it go. It was stolen from us."

"Careless, indeed."

"Perhaps, but you must return it to us," Legolas insisted, pleading up from his prone position knelt on the ground. It felt wrong somehow to be so subservient to this man. Like he was bowing to the Shadow in some way. Still, he swallowed his pride and distaste and stared with honest eyes pleading up at the man.

"Must I now?" asked the man with mocking amusement. "You are not in a good position to be making any demands right now, I think. The Palantir belongs to us now – unless you can convince me of the wisdom of returning it to you."

Reason was a rare quality these days; Legolas found that he respected this strange man for said quality. But what could he say to convince these people to turn over such an immensely important object? The truth? Surely that would not go down well. Getting into further trouble by revealing their true purpose with the Palantir did not seem a particularly good prospect and yet it might prove to be the only way of getting out of this alive and with the Seeing Stone.

However, before Legolas had a chance to articulate his so carefully thought out answer, Aragorn answered in the most authoritative voice Legolas had ever heard him use.

"We are gathering to us an army, those untouched by and opposed to the Dark Lord's rule of Shadow over the lands. We intend to march on Mordor once we have gathered all our might, and the Palantir, so I am told, will play an integral role in our efforts. So, we are going to need it back."

Silence followed. Certainly, the strangely garbed man had not been expecting the truth – for surely none could have formed such an outrageous and, in these times, dangerous lie – and most definitely not from the quiet, timid man. The man glanced across at the two Dwarves holding his fourth prisoner and there was amusement again in his eyes.

"And who, may I ask, are you?" asked the man, turning back to the younger man knelt before him.

Not sparing as much as a glance at his guardian, the younger man replied, "I am Aragorn, soon to be King of Gondor."

Laughter erupted immediately from their captors – all but the small man dressed in crimson. He stared, eyes calculating, fingers thrumming slowly on the polished hilt of his finely curved sword, thinking over quite seriously what he had been told. From the blonde man, their voice of reason, ambassador to their cause, he could have easily accepted such a claim; he practically oozed authority beneath his rough, weatherworn exterior, blue eyes glittered with ancient intelligence and power. But he had not expected it from the quiet, obviously youthful, dark-haired man at his side. And yet there was something in his honest grey eyes as he stared uncomfortably up at his captors. Truth.

Ignoring the hilarity his colleagues found, the man asked, "King? Of Gondor?" Aragorn nodded earnestly. "I have never heard of such a person."

"Just because you haven't heard of it doesn't mean it doesn't exist." Quoting his guardian's words felt comforting somehow and he felt rather than saw Legolas smile beside him.

"And you are the King of Gondor, you say? Why then did you come here? Why not stay in your home with your Stone of Seeing?"

"Well, I have never actually been to Gondor," confessed Aragorn hesitantly. So much for his sudden display of dominance.

"Ah, I see." The man laughed then, although his companions had all fallen silent now. "A king who has never set foot inside his own kingdom."

"We are heading there now," put in Legolas defensively.

This time, the man kept his desire to mock snidely in check and nodded towards the blonde man at Aragorn's side. "And who, King Aragorn, is your friend? A servant perhaps?"

Aragorn would have expected Legolas to bristle at the demeaning label of 'servant' being slapped on him but the Elf stared unflinchingly ahead, not about to be baited or belittled by this man, as was obviously his intention. Surprisingly, Legolas made no move to correct the man's assumption, leaving it to his ward to answer for him, perhaps only further demonstrating his loyalty to his king.

"No. Legolas is my guardian," replied the young man, his voice as hard as his stare.

"An Elvish prince," added Kalub and Legolas' face registered surprise that the tracker who had never shown him any real regard was now defending him to these antagonistic strangers they had encountered. Still, the title burned hot in his heart and he wished the word had never been spoken.

"Prince? Is there any among you who is not royal?" mocked the man with what the others knew to be a smile.

"Yes. I am a tracker."

Legolas chuckled softly at the reply but lowered his eyes to the ground again. He guessed that this man did not like being spoken back to or mocked.

"What is your name?" Aragorn asked boldly, changing the subject.

For a moment, the scarlet-dressed man stared shrewdly at Aragorn, once more weighing up the pros and cons of uttering his true name. In the end, he decided upon the same route Legolas had taken – the sparing truth.

"My name is Jecha."

"And your friends?"

Glancing behind him at the odd collection of Dwarves and Men assembled close by watching this exchange, Jecha corrected rather distastefully, "Colleagues," as if he did not want to be too closely associated with the smaller races. "I do not know all their names, nor do I care to know."

"All right then," Aragorn said quickly, wondering how people could travel together and yet now know each other's names. "What are you going to do with us now?" He did not press for names from the others following this man for he doubted he would get much of a reaction from them. They seemed to trust the cloth-swathed man with this encounter. Besides, there was that more pressing question to address first.

Unfortunately, Jecha's answer was not especially enlightening. "I am undecided."

Not certain whether this boded well or ill, Aragorn looked questioningly at his guardian. Fortunately, Legolas resumed his customary position as leader with ease at being silently prompted by his ward and asked, "May we request that you speed up your decision? We have people waiting for us."

"Grovelling servants waiting for their king?" mocked Jecha.

"Not grovelling but…"

"Very well. My decision will be expedient. In the meantime, in spite of my ever fervent desire to be hospitable to you all, I am afraid that I must restrain you fully once again."

"Really, that won't be necessary. We won't run."

"Ah, yes." Jecha looked across at Grima, still held fast between the two Dwarven guards. "You do indeed have incentive to stay. And yet, I cannot trust you. I am sorry."

Jecha then inclined his head to the three people still stood watchfully behind his captives and blindfolds were replaced over their eyes. They were pulled up to their feet again then led away. Fighting would do them no good so they went without fight or protest. This time, they were not taken far – fifty paces to Legolas' count – before they were once more pushed to their knees, on cold stone now, and left blindfolded. Legolas' sharp hearing could easily pick up the sound of a guard close by, although whether Man or Dwarf, he could not tell.

"Now what?" hissed Aragorn quietly to his guardian.

Turning his head towards the voice, the Elf admitted, "I haven't a clue."

"I know what to do," offered Kalub more loudly than the other two would have liked given that they were being watched. In a more cautious whisper, he explained, "My knots are loose. I'll wager it'll only take an hour or so to work out of them."

"Do not attempt to get yourself free," Legolas warned.

"May I ask why not?"

"Because even if you did get free, you've nowhere to go. You'll only end up getting caught again and they might be less civil with you the second time around."

Irritably, Kalub muttered, "You don't know that for sure."

"Besides, we cannot leave without getting what we came for."

"Well, they aren't going to give it to us, are they? Something so valuable, they're not simply going to hand it over to us, not if they've got any sense that is."

"Be that as it may, we cannot leave the Palantir here with them."

Anger washed over Kalub then and he tugged hard against his ropes in an attempt to get free, a hot-headed attempt destined to fail on the first try. "That snivelling, low-life, waste of air…"

"Control yourself, Kalub," Legolas advised with impossible calm.

Silence followed then as the tracker, an impatient being at the very best of times, took slow, deep breaths to cool his rising temper before it got out of hand and descended into panic. He was by no means alone in his fears. Courteous as their captors appeared to be, Legolas could not vouch for their reason or their sanity. After all, they were in an area obviously occupied by Wild Men. Just because Jecha, if that was in fact his real name, spoke with above average intelligence didn't mean that he wasn't at that very moment planning to brutally slaughter them. On the surface, running did seem the logical course of action and yet they were just as effectively bound by the pull of the Palantir as the ropes tying them up. It was imperative that they retrieved that Stone.

"So," Aragorn whispered after a while, "what do we do now?"

Sighing, Legolas said, "We…we wait."

"I despise waiting," the other man breathed in irritation.

"You could have fooled me," muttered Aragorn under his breath.

**OIOI**

"I don't know. I swear, I don't," wailed Grima as he sat hunched in a corner up against the rough surface of a rock, hands bound tight in front of him but the gag and blindfold now removed so he could see and speak to his captors.

"You seem to know very little for a spy," observed Jecha dryly, looking down judgementally at the quivering wreck of a man. How he had ever been deemed by the Shadow as a worthy servant was beyond Jecha.

"I have told you already, I am no spy," repeated Grima in a whimper.

"Hm." Jecha paced before the trembling man, thoughtfully chewing over what he had been told. He knew it would not be the truth. This snake-like man would say anything to spare his own life. So he pressed onwards, unwilling to believe the blatant falsities he was being fed. "That is not what your companions have alleged. They say that you are working in league with the Shadow, that your purpose here is a dark one."

Playing dumb happened to be a particular talent of Grima Wormtongue, one he had perfected almost to an art over his many years of working on it, and now it would serve him well in fooling this man. "Work…working for the Shadow? I…I…I would never so such a heinous thing. No. Never."

"No? Then why would you run with this?" Jecha asked calmly, gently laying his hand atop the Palantir, which rested on a rock a safe distance from Grima, covered in its protective cloth.

Upon his attention being drawn to the object, Grima's eyes gleamed, wide with want. Licking his lips, he had to work to move his gaze away from the Palantir and back to Jecha, so he could retain some semblance of honesty. His voice was hesitant; distracted when he answered and he was not sure it was as convincing as he hoped.

"I did not…My only thought was getting rid of it," he explained quietly, hoping his strained voice sounded sincere enough to fool the fiercely intelligent interrogator in front of him.

"Get rid of it? That was your only goal when you stole it?" Jecha asked again for clarification, his tone doubtful, arms crossed over his chest to make himself look even more impressive than he already did in all his finery.

"Why, yes, of course."

"You were doing them a favour," offered Jecha, extending his hand out invitingly towards the slimy man, who'd now sat up on his knees, perhaps unconsciously leaning forward slightly in his desire to appear convincing.

"Exactly right. That thing is pure evil," Grima hissed, nodding his head toward the ball of stone. Renewed now was his hope that he might have a chance to get out of this – and with the Seeing Stone as well.

"Indeed it is."

"Yes. Evil…and terribly dangerous. Treacherous."

"You might say that I would be better off without it," suggested the accented man helpfully.

"You might well say that, yes."

"If I were to…allow you loose…"

"Well, I would take the Stone off your hands, relieve you of the burden." Grima tried hard to keep the enthusiasm, the excitement, out of his voice. Sincerity had admittedly never been his strongest point but then he didn't seem to be doing too badly right then.

"That is generosity indeed." Grima nodded encouragingly, now leaning so far forward that Jecha feared he may topple given that his balance was off due to his bound hands. "Out of interest, where would you take the Seeing Stone when you leave here?"

Grima shrugged, thinking through his answer. "Well, obviously I would destroy it."

"Of course. But how will you destroy it exactly?"

In truth, Grima had not even thought of this particular problem. He couldn't be expected to come up with such details on the spot, not when he was under so much pressure. Suppressing a sigh, Grima finally answered, "Well, I would take it…I would take…"

Jecha raised his hand to call a halt to the man's rambling, knowing fully well that Grima had nothing sensible to say. The teasing, enjoyable though it may have been, had to come to an end at some time. "I understand," he said softly. He paused to glance at the other man, standing guard, dressed almost identically, with sceptical, amused eyes. Moving across the man's sightline, Jecha said, "Unfortunately, my slippery little friend, I cannot release you." Grima's face visibly fell at this and his eyes widened in fear. "I have not spent an hour in your presence and I trust you less than my other guests. That does not bode well for you, snake."

"No…I…Please…"

"Get him out of here," the man commanded and immediately the two Dwarves stepped forward to drag a struggling, grovelling Grima to his feet.

"You cannot do this! Please, you cannot!"

Jecha was unmoved by the pleas, however, and they soon were silenced as Grima was again gagged with a filthy piece of cloth. Turning thoughtfully to his silent, still companion, he asked in his native tongue, so far removed from the Westron he'd been using so far that it would be utterly unrecognisable to everyone else who might be listening in – the virtue of being unique amongst Men, this privacy, "Well, what do you think?"

"Release them," the man replied in a deep voice.

"You are sure?"

"Yes."

Sighing, Jecha shrugged and agreed wearily. "Very well."

**To Be Continued…**


	50. The Host

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Sorry it's a little shorter this time. **

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed, it is greatly appreciated. Enjoy the chapter**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 50 – The Host**

The screams were the worst. They cut through the mind and the soul, slowly and painfully slicing away at sanity until there was scarce little left, far more effective in its torment than any physical hurt that could be caused to the body. Not that this made the physical pain any easier to bear. Sometimes it was almost overwhelming. But wishing it to stop would do no good, that much was a given. No, the creatures corrupted by the Shadow would not cease for pleas, they would not stop for anything. Perhaps they too feared the fate that awaited them here and the penalties for even the notion of disobedience. It did not matter though. Nothing mattered anymore.

Some time ago, it had been crowded in the black pits of Mordor. Hundreds of creatures, races of all kinds, some that would have been unknowable even to the fallen Wise, packed tightly together in reeking, noisy cells. Now they were far fewer in number. Less than twenty remained, all of them of the Elven race. Others, mostly Dwarves and very few Men, had been disentangled from their chains and taken away and had never returned to the pits. What happened to them no one knew or would care to guess. Not the Elves though. The Elves were almost always returned – never in the condition they left in though. When they returned, they never seemed the same. Usually, they died within days of their return. No outwards wounds were visible when they were dragged back down beneath the earth where the Dark Lord stored his 'hosts' past and future, and yet the Elves were not whole. They returned less of people than they had once been. As if something inside of them had been irreparably broken.

For days, they sat, curled up; weeping, shattered wrecks on the floor. After a few days of no food or water, they seemed to simply give up on their miserable half-lives and left the living world. After all, who would want to live after that torture?

The threat that hung over the ones still waiting was ever palpable, as real as the thick air surrounding them or the constant pain and torment of their imprisonment. At any moment, the Orcs could come and carry one of the pitiful survivors away to the same fate. Perhaps it might be a release. Maybe anything, even being infected by the Shadow so potent that it stripped all else away and left nothing but an empty husk behind, would be better than a tortured life locked up in the rat-infested chambers deep below Barad-dur.

Hot, dark and claustrophobic, they were at times unendurable and their occupants could do nothing but pray for death to come swiftly to them. For the Elves, this was a hard concept to accept. Death was frightening to them given all the previous promises of everlasting joy when one grew tired of the world of Arda. Eternity in the dark emptiness terrified the prisoners. Yet it was still preferable to this. Mandos, they believed, would not be so cruel.

Hanging from chains attached by thick metal rings to the ceiling so that his body was stretched out almost to its limit with the only support preventing him from having his whole bodyweight held up only by his chaffed, bloody wrists being a small ledge just wide enough for him to balance on his toes. Agony in itself but better than the alternative. He knew not for how long he had been hanging there inert. Time had no meaning in the cells of Mordor. Days, minutes, hours, years…they all melded together, in effect becoming utterly meaningless. Pain dominated his senses. Relief came but rarely.

Yet he clung to the possibility of those blessed moments. A slight ease in the torment. Such a little thing counted as a great blessing in this place. Perhaps sleep might take him for a short length of time, or maybe the rats would stay away for a while having grown tired of trying to gnaw on Elven flesh or, a major victory would be that the prisoners were brought food.

When was the last time he ate? Frowning, he realised he couldn't remember. In the dark, he could not see his own body hanging naked against the cold damp stone wall, but he could picture it looking emaciated and grey, nothing like his former self if he remembered his previous image correctly. A fright he must have looked now, such a far cry from the fit, healthy, strong Elf he had once been. He would not be recognised by his own people, should any of them have escaped the brutality of the Dark Lord's regime.

What was the point of strength and courage when there was nowhere to go, no way to fight back?

Too long had he been confined. It had been so long since he had seen the sun, felt warmth or love or hope or gazed upon the stars. Sometimes he longed for it. His heart craved to be granted just a glimpse of the outside world, to see what he vaguely remembered in the back of his mind to have been the world he had grown up and lived in. Whether or not the sun still shone outside in the wake of Sauron's maiming of the lands mattered surprisingly little to him. A breath of fresh, uncontaminated air would suffice. The feel of the earth, untainted by filth, on under his feet.

Such longings both comforted and saddened him when he succumbed to them. For although dreaming of a world free from these horrors brought him some measure of peace, he was also resigned to the fact that thought may never be manifest again.

Waiting for his end to come, no matter how the final blow was delivered, was a torture in itself. Occasionally, he felt madness creeping up on him and he wondered whether when his time eventually came, when the Dark Lord finally decided that he needed a brand new host and his number was up, he might be rejected for his insanity. Surely some semblance of stability of the mind was needed to hold even the corrupt soul of the Lord of Shadow. And if he was indeed considered to be inappropriate for 'possession', what then? What would happen to him? Release seemed unlikely. Death was perhaps more realistic.

"Help! Help me!"

Screams were close now. New Elves were rare here. The Dark Lord's policy of rounding up the Firstborn and killing them systematically within the first few years of his dominion was now proving problematic for Sauron. Few survived for his purposes and there was no ready supply out there waiting for him.

This was not a new voice shouting now. It was old. Almost as old as he was. Maybe they had been acquaintances once, before all this had happened. He could not remember. Truth be told, he could not remember his own name half the time. Only vague, inexact images from his past surfaced every now and then to torment him. Details were scarce and he preferred it that way. Perhaps if he ever allowed himself to indulge, he really would be driven to madness.

Constant yells for help and salvation that would never come were often irritating but he could not begrudge any other the release. It happened to them all at times. A release of emotion, of pain, was needed and oftentimes a scream was the only way to vent. No one liked to hear it though for it brought everything into stark reality for others who shared in the torment of Sauron's incarceration.

"Please!" cried the voice in its native Elven tongue, although it sounded nothing like the ancient melodic language anymore. Already hoarse and rough, the cries were too desperate, too feral to be associated with the Fair Ones. "Please! Help! Help me, please!"

Tears flowed freely down his cheeks and splashed onto his bare chest as he listened to the shameless cries and begging of his kinsman. No one could see his grief here in the darkness so what did it matter if he crumbled along with him?

"Oh, Valar, please save me," screamed the voice, broken, the pleas echoing around the cells. "Help!"

There was no one who could do anything to hear the pleas, and even if there were, no one would care, no one would answer, not even the Blessed Ones from the Undying Lands, for they seemed to have forsaken their most beloved children and watched their ruin without mercy or pity or intervention. He hated them for that, he had realised some time ago. He never pleaded with the Valar. They were as dead to him now as his own family were.

"Shut up," he muttered to himself as the voice descended from cries for help into irritating, unintelligible wails.

The racket was disrupting his distracting train of thoughts. The pain in his shoulders flared to an almost unbearable level and he fought back the urge to shift his position against his chains. Such a move was always a risk. One slip and he would be jerked down by the weight of his own body and that would be agony on his back and shoulders. He'd long ago lost all feeling in his wrists and hands and the only way he knew they were even still attached to the ends of his arms was the fact that he remained chained up by them. But his arms ached constantly and his back hurt and his shoulders were worse by far than all the other pains. But then, everything, every part of his wasted body hurt fiercely almost past the point of even Elven endurance. And yet, he could do nothing but endure. There was no other choice.

Squeezing his eyes shut as tight as he could, he tried to mentally push aside the flare up of searing agony. But it could not be ignored, not when it blazed so horribly through him.

A cry escaped him, loud to his own ears because he had not heard it for so long. How peculiar his voice sounded. For however long he had been held captive he had uttered only cries, whimpers. Speaking was seldom required and he wondered whether he even still possessed the capacity to hold a conversation.

"Shut up!" that voice, which just moments ago had been pitiful and pleading, now yelled viciously through the darkness at him.

"You shut up!" joined in another voice, unfamiliar to him.

The crying started again then in response but it too died down after a while. Energy drained, the screamer would no doubt rest for a long while now, leaving the others in peace for a time. Until he woke again, realised the hopelessness of his situation and the cycle started all over again.

The quiet was blissful and he let his head bow, his chin coming to rest against his sweat-coated chest. In such a position, sleep proved impossible but the Elven race possessed the ability to relax in a kind of meditative, rejuvenating state called reverie and that had to prove sufficient in this place. He had grown used to resting in such a manner and it afforded him, for a time at least, some measure of peace.

Laughter woke him. Not the insane, hysterical laughter of his fellow captive Elves but the deep, mocking laughter he had come to associate with the Enemy. He raised his head and immediately snapped his eyes shut when faced with the hot, bright light from a flaming torch. After so long shrouded in near pitch darkness, the light was not entirely welcomed. It burned his eyes. What a wretched thing he had become. One of the Firstborn shying away from the light. No better than an Orc cowering from the sunlight.

"Your turn now, creature," said one of the Orcs in unpractised Westron.

Suddenly, his hands were being freed. Unprepared for the change, his precarious balance wavered and he fell hard to the ground, landing on his front with a thud. Immediately, he choked, for the air smelled thoroughly putrid near the ground. With the floor thick with filth and waste from the prisoners, he realised now that he had been lucky to be tied up against the wall and not left to languish in that muck. He fought to urge not to gag, knowing it would only increase the agony shooting through his body.

"Up," commanded an Orkish voice.

No time was to be wasted. He was dragged to his feet when he did not immediately comply with the growled order, even though given his condition standing would be impossible unsupported. After so many years bound, mistreated and starved, he felt like he did not have so much as an ounce of strength left in him. Supported by either side by Orcs, he was dragged from the cells, listening with some hint of sadness to the cries and pleas of those prisoners he was leaving behind. Although they were not crying for him, he felt sad that he would never listen to their rambling cries ever again. This was the end, he knew, and he was so grateful he could cry. Sauron's hosts never lasted long. Soon it would all be over and the peace he craved would be granted.

Unable to walk, he was hauled up a steeply sloping path, his bare toes scraping against damp, uneven stone. As they ascended, the air grew cleaner and he breathed as deeply as his tortured lungs could manage. Right there and then, being taken inexorably to his death, he could have bawled like a small Elfling, the sensation of being able to draw a deep breath without choking on foul-smelling, stale air was so utterly wondrous.

He was allowed very little time to dwell on this small pleasure, however, for they soon reached their destination.

With absolutely no care, he was dropped down to the floor. Heavy footsteps moved all around him but he simply laid there, unmoving, waiting. Whatever was going to happen could not be helped, so waiting was the only option.

Listening to a voice that made no sense to him, the Elf laid on his front, keeping his eyes firmly shut against the unpleasant, scorching orange light of torches that burned all around the room.

Suddenly, freezing cold water was dropped over him in one short rush and he gasped in shock. Struggling now for breath, he tried to sit up, to remove his naked body from the cold, but his arms were too weak, too wasted to support him. Another bucket of water was thrown over him then he was grabbed under the arms and hauled up onto his knees. His head was wrenched back and then his filthy, greasy hair was sliced off, cut miserably short, with a sharp knife that occasionally dug into his scalp and drew blood. At one time, he might have protested at his golden hair, a symbol of status amongst Elven warriors, being shorn off but that didn't matter to him anymore. In fact, it was somewhat of a relief to have the overly long, greasy, lice-infested tresses finally cut off. Had he had the opportunity, he would have done it himself. The Orcs worked until they had ensured that he was almost bald, only a few tufts of gold clinging to his head. He glanced down at the floor, squinting in the light, and saw the dirty blonde hair scattered all about him. No emotion swamped him. He felt…nothing.

The Orcs were not done in their cleansing yet. They scrubbed every inch of his body with a rough cloth that made his skin hurt and bleed in patches. Every part of him was thoroughly cleansed of dirt and grime. Pride had little place in this world of darkness but he flinched all the same as the Orcs none too gently scrubbed the filth from even his most private areas. At his feeble, wordless protests at the violation, which no doubt the Orcs had experienced from past potential hosts, the Orcs laughed, teasing and hurting him all the more.

Soon he was clean. Cold and aching but blissfully clean. Clothes were pulled onto him then, far too big but still fresh and relatively warm. A long robe was wrapped around him and soft shoes were thrust onto his cut and bruised feet. If this was how the end was going to be then perhaps it would not be so bad after all.

He was pulled up then; although this time he was forced to walk on his own two legs, such a strange sensation after so long in captivity. His legs trembled and faltered weakly with every staggering step he took. But he was given little time to adjust to this new feeling of being mobile. Pushed through a narrow doorway, he was forced onwards, down a long corridor. Steps proved a challenge that very nearly bested him and yet he was never allowed to pause. Whenever he faltered, Orcs hands would roughly drag him onwards.

"Speak only if spoken to," an Orc snapped at him as they approached a set of double doors guarded by four fierce-looking Uruk-hai.

"Wait," another Orc stopped them when they reached the doors. "Hands."

The Elf instinctively looked downwards, his eyes more focused now that they had adjusted somewhat to the light of the blazing torches, but he could see nothing especially wrong with his hands, red and bruised though they were through years of mistreatment.

"Ah!" exclaimed one of the Orcs and then proceeded to shove a pair of fine gloves onto the Elf's painful hands. "Well spotted."

"Inside," one of the Uruk guards commanded gruffly. "They are waiting."

Who was waiting was perhaps obvious. The Elf felt his heart pounding erratically in his chest; he was afraid. After all the waiting, anticipating the end, he now dragged his feet as he was led towards a throne of black stone, beside which stood a tall, old bearded man dressed in pristine white robes. The old man fairly oozed power but he was not the one the Elf feared. Rather it was the…being hunched over on the throne; a far less physically intimidating power but ultimately ten times more frightening to behold simply because of who he was.

"Welcome," the hunched figure wheezed chillingly in perfect, clipped Elvish.

Swallowing thickly to dislodge the lump in his tight throat, the Elf could think of nothing to say so he settled for just staring wide-eyed, uncaring that the brighter light of this room was making his eyes sting and water.

"On your knees," hissed one of the Orcs at his side, gripping his shoulder tight and shoving him down onto his knees before pushing his head forcefully down into a bow.

"Leave," Sauron, for it was unmistakably Sauron, commanded. He did not like witnesses. Holding up his hands towards the Elf, the Dark Lord said amiably, "I regret the treatment of my servants."

Daring to look up at the Lord of Shadow, the Elf openly flinched.

Unimpressed by the snivelling creature that had been dropped at his feet, the old man dressed in white turned to Sauron and said, "Enough of this. Let's get on."

The Dark Lord bowed his head in acquiescence. "Get up," he commanded to the Elf.

He did not want to. Before, he had always imagined that even being taken body and soul by the Oppressor would prove a better fate than an eternity in the pits of Mordor but now that he was here, quailing and trembling at the feet of the Dark Lord himself, he would readily admit to any who asked that he was terrified. The pits, it turned out, were better than this fate. The wailer he had left behind would not be pleased.

Resisting the will of the Dark Lord would be beyond even the most powerful and thus he found himself stumbling forwards obligingly.

It was the white robed man who approached him rather than Sauron himself. The tall, impatient man gripped his thin arm in a strong, bony hand and dragged him up to the throne where Sauron sat in an awkward manner. He was again pushed down onto his knees. Trembling, he looked up just as Sauron lifted gloved hands to pull back the hood obscuring his face.

At the sight, the Elf's blood ran cold and a scream clogged in his throat. It had obviously been an Elf at some point but now the creature sat before him was barely recognisable as anything. A bald head, much like his own now was, was marred with scars and fresh, oozing wounds, as if something too big was contained inside and was trying to escape by slowly splitting the skin and burrowing its way out. Eyes that once would have glowed with a bright inner light were dark, black almost, and dead.

"I look a fright, I know. It is an unfortunate side-effect. Your bodies are simply too weak to sustain me."

"Can we get on with this," grumbled the man at their side.

"Yes. Time is precious indeed. I am ailing," he sighed wearily, his hand shakily sliding over the contours of his head, smearing blood as it did so. "Do it."

"Please," stuttered out the Elf in one final desperate plea as the old man laid one cold hand against his brow. "Don't do this."

His pleas were ignored though. Why would Sauron pay a mere Elf any heed? The old man with them seemed even more ambivalent towards him than the Dark Lord himself. There was no release from this horror. Nothing to save him.

Brilliant white light engulfed all present and it seemed to sear in the depths of the Elf's soul, flooding his mind and being. Accompanied as it was by such intense pain, the likes of which he imagined no other than a host of Sauron had ever felt, the Elf screamed. And screamed and screamed. It was the only thing he could do. The only action he could take. The agony swamped him and he writhed on the spot, not trying to escape the pain, because he knew that to be impossible, but simply for some action.

The process was far from pleasant for Sauron either. The transferring of one's soul was painful, exhausting and fraught with danger.

When it was at last over, Saruman released his grip and immediately the spell was broken. The empty vessel collapsed back limply onto the throne, alive but utterly drained of all energy, whilst the Elf, whose body was now host to that dark and twisted soul, fell forwards, bracing himself with his hands as he took a moment to adjust to the new sensations engulfing him.

"So strong," murmured Sauron, flexing wasted muscles, powerful in comparison to his previous host despite their lack of strength.

"The spell is strengthened. It should last longer than the others," Saruman explained, looking down distastefully at the vacated Elven body sat wide-eyed and breathing heavily on Sauron's throne of black. How his master could tolerate inhabiting such creatures was beyond the Wizard. Personally, he hated being confined within a physical body; although he thought he would rather live in the visage of an old man than a scrawny, powerless Elf. He supposed there was some poetry in Sauron's choice. Yes, Elves were naturally stronger than just about any other creature on Arda, but there was another draw for Sauron, he suspected. How ironic it was that the Dark Lord, a creature himself long fallen from grace, should inhabit the very beings he despised the most, twisting them to his own dark purposes and stripping them of their life's force and vigour. It was, after all, how the Lord of Shadow had first created his Orcs. Taking what was good and pure and warping it beyond all recognition to fulfil his own purposes.

"Yes," hissed Sauron, carefully gaining his feet and stretching out his muscles experimentally. "It will do." Taking a shaky step up to his throne, he called out, "Get rid of this mess," kicking at the leg of the prone Elf sprawled inelegantly on the ground.

Immediately, the two Orcs that had brought him his latest host came quietly in and carried away the now useless carcass – for essentially that was what he had been reduced to in wake of the possession – dragging it from the room where it would be returned to the dungeons beneath Barad-dur. To Sauron now it was useless. A host could seldom be successfully reused, inconvenient though it was. Once his throne had been freed, Sauron lowered himself down.

"If you have finished with my services, my Lord, I should wish to return to Isengard," prompted Saruman, leaning heavily on his staff, flaunting his impatience as no other in the presence of the Dark Lord would ever dare to.

"Yes. Isengard. Tell me, Curunir, what of that which was entrusted to you?"

Now shifting anxiously in his fine robes and leather boots, Saruman answered, "It is being dealt with, my Lord."

"Dealt with? You have not found my Palantir yet?"

"As we speak, my spies are returning it into my keeping."

Clear blue eyes, not yet clouded with evil, and still looking very much like an Elf still, locked Saruman in a deep, expressionless stare. "They had better be. The enemy must not be allowed to possess such a powerful object as the Stone of Seeing. I trust that you will not disappoint me. Again. You know the price of failure."

Staring boldly into eyes that were already beginning to shine with malice, Saruman nodded. "Your servants have already adequately reminded me of my duties."

"Then no further encouragement should be required. Go now. Return to Isengard. But I will summon you again sometime soon," Sauron told him darkly, too busy testing out the perks of his new body to pay much attention to the disgraced Wizard. He knew that his words would resonate well enough in spite of their softness.

"Thank you, my Lord." Calmly, Saruman walked from the room, eschewing the usual bow a sycophantic servant might have performed. He was angry now. Would he ever be treated as an equal or would he be forever destined to live as little more than a glorified slave, no better in reality than the mindless Orcs?

No, that would not do. That would not do at all.

**To Be Continued…**


	51. Tensions

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Ohh, such lovely reviews. Thank you all. Here's the next chapter for you. Enjoy!**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 51 – Tensions**

Legolas awoke from his sleep abruptly, sitting up straight with a sharp gasp. There was but a gentle breeze on the air ruffling his hair but he shivered at it all the same. Wiping his hand across his brow, he realised it was beaded with sweat. Nightmares had always haunted his reverie on the rare occasion that he was granted it, but this was particularly vivid and not set solely in Mirkwood as the others had been but rather in the horrible, forsaken lands of Mordor. Focusing too hard on the memory made him shudder again. He shook his head, not wanting to dwell on the dark images of the Necromancer and his unfortunate slaves and prisoners.

"Water?"

The unfamiliar voice made Legolas jump and he looked up to find the man who called himself Jecha stood next to him, holding out a small tin cup, presumably filled with the offered water.

"Oh. Thank you."

Rather than leaving after Legolas had gratefully accepted the cup from him, Jecha instead gracefully sat down beside him. "Sleep well?"

Legolas was hardly going to reveal that his nights were seldom peaceful anymore or that nightmares haunted his sleeping hours. He did not know the man well enough to divulge such personal information. So he settled for a simple answer of, "Yes."

"Your ward is sleeping."

Glancing to his left, Legolas indeed saw Aragorn laid out on the ground, blanket spread over his sleeping form. At some point, he had also been gifted a crimson-coloured cloak, presumably from one of their new allies.

Legolas remembered now that the previous evening, after they had finally been released from their bonds and granted their freedom back, they had all been sitting around a fire listening to Jecha and his unusual band of companions explaining who they were and how they had come to all be together in this place at this time. And he had fallen asleep before the warmth of the fire. He had not intended to but he could not help it. Rarely did the exiled and tormented Prince of Mirkwood prove so lax in his attentions but he had been exhausted, surprisingly so for him.

Looking to Aragorn now, a sudden thought occurred to the Elf. A memory, actually. One night, long ago, Aragorn had awoken from a terrible nightmare, which he had reluctantly confided in the Elf had featured none other than the Dark Lord himself. He recalled Aragorn speaking with reticence and open fear of how he had witnessed his guardian's demise at the Dark Lord's hands. Was that indeed what he had seen all that time ago? And did Legolas now have a similar premonition? Was that truly to be his end? Rotting in the depths of foul Mordor as the Elf he had dreamt of?

"Are you well?" Jecha asked, peering at the Elf as he noticed his sudden pallor.

Swallowing thickly against the lump of fear that had lodged in his throat, Legolas nodded, but at the same time got to his feet, saying, "Excuse me for a moment."

"Certainly."

He did not know where he intended to go, after all, there was nowhere to go for privacy in this space, but Legolas felt suddenly enclosed and that he had to get away, not from the man who had earlier declared himself to be a defector from the savage Easterling race, but rather away from all of them. Truth was, he was afraid. Given that he could not abide those he knew well seeing his fear of anything he was hardly going to allow people he did not know to witness such a profound weakness.

Once in the relative privacy of the darkness, away from the telling bubble of firelight, Legolas came to a halt, breathing deeply of the stale air to cleanse away the last of his troubles. For a moment, he paced rhythmically, trying to clear his mind. He did not fear death. He never had done. He'd always known that to be his fate, one way or another. What horrors led up to his death, those were harder to trivialise.

Such dark thoughts were not healthy to dwell on. Besides, there was no point in fearing what may never happen. Chances were, he had simply suffered a nightmare, a vivid and frightening nightmare, but a nightmare nonetheless. It had left him understandably shaken.

Taking another deep breath, vaguely irritated with himself that it came out shuddery, Legolas steeled himself to return to camp.

"Not out here. Dangerous," a low, deep voice warned from behind the Elf, making him jump for a second time that night, caught unawares. He vaguely remembered that the big man had been assigned to take the first watch of the night.

"Yes, I know. I was just…" He found that he had no explanation he felt fitting to give the tall man from Harad; yet another of the eclectic team of rebels he had found himself unwittingly aligned with. So instead, he ended up merely shrugging in response.

A large hand fell upon his tense shoulder and he was forcefully turned around, back towards where the firelight glowed. "Go." When you were as physically intimidating as the former chief of a merciless Haradhrim tribe then Legolas supposed it mattered very little that you could not speak the Common Tongue of Men with any degree of fluency. For him, no doubt, actions spoke considerably louder than words ever could.

With a little push applied to his back, Legolas had little choice but to return to the small campsite. Reasoning with the man that he wished to spend some time by himself would do no good given that he could barely understand half of what was being said to him and Legolas knew fully well that he was by no means a physical match for the giant Haradhrim.

Jecha sat just where Legolas had left him, waiting patiently, it seemed for the Elf's return. As Legolas sat down, the man made no attempt to enquire as to whether he was well. Maybe he didn't want to discomfort the prince any further – or maybe he just didn't care either way.

"Your plan," spoke Jecha after a few moments of silence, "to return to your people via Rohan, it is a great risk."

"I know this."

"Grima bears the mark of the White Hand on his dagger. It is the Wizard he is aligned to."

"Saruman had decimated the lands of the Rohirrim. That he would have planted spies amongst the remains of its people is perhaps not all that surprising."

"No. When Grima fails to return with the Stone of Seeing, Saruman will be most seriously displeased. He will suspect that his spy has been weeded out. Passing within mere league of Isengard would be foolish."

It made sense, this logic. Legolas knew it. "What then do you suggest?" he asked, somewhat more tightly than was necessary given Jecha was only trying to do what was best to help them reach their people safely.

"Another route. One that might prove advantageous given your…associations," Jecha replied cryptically, dark eyes slipping over to Aragorn's prone form.

"Aragorn?"

"The King of Gondor. That is the sword of the king that he carries with him, is it not?"

Legolas looked to Anduril, laid almost with reverence up against the bags they always carried with them and confirmed, "It is."

"There is a legend, ancient now, of a race of Men," Jecha started, looking intently, unflinchingly at Legolas as he spoke from behind his thin veil of cloth. "They were of the White Mountains. When Gondor's need in the first War was at its most dire, the King of Gondor called them into service. They swore an oath to aid Gondor in battle. But they did not come. They broke their vow, reneged on their sworn promise and fled into the darkness of the mountains. For their treachery, the last King of Gondor, Isildur, cursed them, doomed them to never be granted rest until they had fulfilled their promised allegiance."

Legolas nodded; he had a vague memory of reading of such a myth in some ancient text during his history schooling as an infant but even so he knew little of the details.

"What was their fate?" he asked of the storyteller sat beside him.

"The curse held. It kept their spirits tied to this world. The world of the living. In the Dimholt mountain where they cowered they remain trapped."

"All right," Legolas said slowly, trying his best not to disrespect Jecha by viewing this Human superstition with all the scepticism it so clearly deserved. "How exactly does this help our cause?"

"The legend goes that only the true King of Gondor can command the Army of the Dead." Jecha's eyes once again alighted upon Aragorn, who remained sleeping, oblivious to the fact that he was the object of this most bizarre discussion. "If what the legend tells is true, then Aragorn, with the blood of the kings running in his veins and the sword of Isildur in his hand, can summon them to his aid. Such an army – invincible as they would be – would be a major help to your cause. If they could be persuaded…"

"Wait. You are suggesting that we cajole an army of ghosts into helping us reclaim Gondor?" Legolas finally demanded incredulously, illusions of respect vanished in wake of the astounding lunacy of this man's suggestion.

"Such power should not be wasted." Legolas snorted in derision at this so Jecha continued, "To ignore such a great ally, one that could change the fortunes of this war, would be foolish."

"You cannot be sure that this legend is true."

"No."

"Nor can you say with any certainty that Aragorn can indeed summon or command them, or indeed that they would agree to fight on the side of Light. Ghosts seem very much within the purview of the Shadow."

"Then you do not think the risk justifiable?"

Legolas shrugged, sighing, "I don't know."

"Then I will take it to the king."

"Excuse me?" Legolas wasn't sure what surprised him more, that Jecha had referred to his ward as 'king', the first time he had really heard Aragorn referred to thusly without coercion, or that he was being ignored as a voice of reason. Seldom did people ask his opinion and then pass it over because it did not suit their liking. Certainly, none had ever gone over his head to Aragorn before. It came as quite a shock.

"I will speak with the king on this matter when he awakes."

Legolas could not help but feel just a little bit affronted by this. He knew he shouldn't feel so. Aragorn was indeed the true ruler of these Men; he did have the final say.

"Get some sleep, Legolas. There are sentries all around. We are protected sufficiently for you to take some rest," Jecha told him, getting up and leaving the Elf by himself once again to ponder on what had been said.

Already, Legolas knew he would find no rest this night. He had too much to think about to allow himself the peace.

**OIOI**

"Are you angry with me?" Aragorn demanded somewhat breathlessly as he hurried to catch up with his guardian, who had been striding resolutely ahead of him all morning.

"Why would I be angry?"

"Because I disregarded your advice and listened instead to Jecha."

"You are their leader, Aragorn, you should heed all advice laid before you and make your own decisions based upon that advice. You have done just that, so I am not angry."

"Then why are you ignoring me?"

"I am not."

"You have barely spoken to me all morning."

"We are talking right now," pointed out the Elf with unusual brusqueness even for him; he knew fully well that the comment would annoy his ward to no end.

"Fine. Be that way!" Aragorn shot back, moving ahead of Legolas to join Jecha and his companions at the front of the group.

Legolas sighed heavily. He had not missed this moody side to Aragorn. Perhaps it was to be expected. After all, Legolas had been short with him ever since he had sided with Jecha and announced that they would head towards Dunharrow and attempt to summon the Dead Army that was reputed to dwell under the mountain. To Legolas it seemed futile. Chasing ghosts – worse, legends of ghosts! – was a seemingly massive waste of valuable time.

"Just so you know, I'm with you on this one," Kalub said conspiratorially as he drew up beside him, clasping Legolas' shoulder as they walked.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Legolas muttered, "Much appreciated, thank you." Of all the people Legolas wanted to be on his side, Kalub was close to the bottom of the list. Rarely did they agree on anything. Allies were important in times of disagreement but Legolas did not think that Kalub carried that much weight with these new Men they travelled with and thus had little care for his opinion.

"You know, I'm sure that if you just spoke to Aragorn, encouraged him to reconsider…"

"I have given him my opinion, presented him with the options. He has made his decision and it is not my place to question it or attempt to dissuade him in his actions," Legolas told the man with surely infuriating calm.

"But you are his guardian!"

"And he is King. The choice is his and his alone."

"That's just ridiculous. He'll listen to what you tell him."

Legolas shook his head in determination. "I will not coerce him into changing his mind."

"It's a bad idea, Legolas," stated Kalub loud enough to attract the attention of the others around them.

Suddenly, the Elf came to a halt, turning to face a rather startled Kalub. "Aragorn is your king. Remember that. You and I follow his orders." Coming closer still to an increasingly alarmed tracker, so that they stood almost nose to nose, Legolas continued warningly, "Is that clear?"

The prideful element of Kalub did not want to be intimidated by the Elf but he found that, much to his consternation, he was. Despite having travelled with Legolas for nearly three years now, he did not know the Elf well at all and still considered him to be in charge, no matter how Legolas tried to now dissuade him. Even when, before his untimely death, Kinnale had led his Rangers, he had been acutely aware that it had been Legolas' lead they were really following. For all intents and purposes, Legolas had always been in ultimate charge.

"Yes, sir," he replied coldly to the overbearing Elf, lowering his eyes from Legolas' piercing gaze.

Legolas kept his eyes locked on the man's for a moment longer just to be certain that the annoyed tracker had truly gotten the message, then he nodded in acceptance and backed off. He walked away from the furious man, fairly certain that Kalub was no longer so firmly on his side. As he moved away, he realised that everything had stopped during the short exchange and the rest of the group were staring at him, having heard everything that had been said.

"Let's go," Legolas called to them as he strode to the front of the group.

"Thank you."

Legolas glanced over to Aragorn, who fell back in step beside him. Rather than accept the thanks with grace though, Legolas merely reiterated, "It's still a bad idea."

**OIOI**

Arrows pelted down on them, thudding uselessly but with deadly intent into the earth when they happened to miss their intended victims. The sky had been turned dark with them, every one of them aimed in the same direction. Rather amazingly, not one had actually yet reached its target but they had come awfully close too many times.

"Eomer! We can't stay here!" Janor yelled over the almost deafening noise of the advancing Orcs.

"You think I don't know that," Eomer replied through tightly gritted teeth. Carefully, he dared to peer out from behind the safety of the cave wall he and a few others who had fled with him were using as a shield. He was presented with a not particularly encouraging sight. "Damn, there must be hundreds of them!"

"Far too many to fight."

"You think?!"

Janor shot a quick glance over his shoulder. For the most part, those taking refuge in the cave with them were civilians, untrained and all but useless in a fight. When the Orcs had attacked, the Men had split, scattering in three different directions. Unfortunately, the warriors amongst them were also divided, making communication to organise attack nearly impossible.

"So what do you suggest we do?" Janor asked, trying to keep the panic from his voice. It was unbecoming of a commander to panic before innocents. He kept reminding himself of this sage bit of advice bestowed upon him by Kinnale before his untimely death. "Eomer, what do we do?"

"I don't know." Truth be told, Eomer had never commanded such an attack. In Rohan, he and his warriors had travelled in small groups all around the Riddermark, picking off any threats that strayed too close to the Golden Hall in Edoras, but never had he faced over two hundred of the Enemy. Even when facing the immense numbers of Orcs and Uruk-hai as they stormed Helm's Deep it had been Kinnale who had been in full command of the troops. Now, on his own with a cave filled with frightened innocents and facing a couple of hundred fierce Enemy fighters, Eomer very much wanted to ask advice from the former commander of the Rangers – Janor for all his valiant attempts at command was too young and inexperienced to be of much help. Much as he hated to admit it, he would even have taken Legolas' counsel at that point.

"Eomer, we have to do something. We can't just sit here and wait for them to slaughter us," Janor hissed into his ear, wanting to convey the urgency of the situation they were in without alerting the others to his rising panic.

"I know that!" Eomer snapped back angrily at him. He glanced around, once more checking how many warriors he currently had at his disposal. Unfortunately, their numbers looked no better the third time of looking.

"All right," Eomer declared at last, shifting up so that he was crouching now behind the cave wall, "there is no way out of this other than to fight our way out. That much has become clear. Janor, you try to make your way to the other caves, find as many of our people as you can and spread the word that we shall soon launch the attack. On my signal, we unleash our warriors on Sauron's hoards."

Fear shone achingly bright in the young Ranger's eyes but he nodded anyway, licking his dry lips in obvious nervousness before he gathered the courage to rush out of the relative safety of his hiding place to do his duty. Dodging numerous arrows as he raced across the open space in between caves that left him so very exposed, Janor ran straight for the closet cave where he knew others were sheltering. When he reached the cave, Janor dashed inside, colliding hard with someone in his haste to reach shelter from the rain of arrows. Strong hands caught him, preventing him from falling and he quickly regained his footing.

"Janor!"

"Veron," the Ranger greeted his friend with breathless relief, clasping the big man's arm.

Quickly, he relayed Eomer's plan, sketchy though it admittedly was, then ran straight back out of the cave and into the barrage of arrows, much to everyone's surprise. Having counted roughly how many people he had seen so far in both caves, he knew that a third group must be sheltering in another and he had to find them.

The third group were fewer than the two before, consisting of only ten people. When he raced inside, he was immediately grabbed hard, a knife pressed dangerously close to his throat by a young man of Rohan who obviously was twitchy given the advancing forces of Evil and had acted instinctively when he thought Janor to be the intruding Enemy.

"It's me!" Janor threw his hands up in the air, signalling his surrender. "It's just me."

Slowly, the knife was lowered by a shaking hand and the scared-looking man released the Ranger with a hasty, "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Janor assured, rubbing his sore throat. "I came here to tell you…"

An impending description of Eomer's maddeningly vague plan was cut off as Janor's eye caught the sight of his fellow Ranger and good friend, Carion, laid on the cave floor, a black Orc arrow protruding hideously from his chest. The big man was heaving for every breath, gripping the hand of one of the attending Rohirrim tightly in pain and increasing panic. Sweat trickled down the man's face as he whimpered openly in pain, wild eyes locked on the wooden shaft buried deep in his chest in disbelief and fear.

"What happened?" Janor demanded, pushing past the other Men to reach the fallen Ranger.

"He was shot," replied the man whose hand Carion was crushing. "I don't know that he is going to make it."

Before Janor could admonish the man was speaking the insensitive truth so blatantly before the injured Ranger, Carion chuckled softly and gasped out, "Optimist, this one."

Kneeling at his friend's side, Janor's sharp eye swept over the large, trembling form. "You're going to be fine."

Again, Carion laughed although this time it dissolved into pained, gurgling coughing. Janor laid his hand on his friend's shoulder, hoping the touch would calm him until the fit passed. Once it had, Carion drew in a deep breath, which sounded horribly strained.

"You…are a…truly…terrible…liar," Carion accused breathless, offering his friend a wavering smile to blunt the words.

"Exactly why I never do it."

Carion raised his hand and gripped the front of Janor's jacket until the commander caught his hand and held it instead. "You…do something…for me."

"Of course. Anything."

"Tell…my brother…" Carion swallowed back the blood that was beginning to choke in his throat. He had to get this out before he drew in his last breath. "Tell him…that I am sorry. And…and that I…I love him…To be strong."

Janor nodded, listening intently as he gripped his friend's hand until his fingers ached. "I'll tell him."

"P-promise?"

"Yes. I promise."

"Th-thank you."

Bowing his head, Janor laid his palm against Carion's stilled chest, closing his eyes in his grief. He had little time to wallow in the misery of his old friend's passing though as just a minute later a loud shout – Eomer's signal for attack – from outside. As much as he hated leaving Carion's body, Janor knew he could not stay here in the safety of the cave whilst his other companions fought for their lives.

As the man got to his feet, he withdrew his sword and turned to the others. "Anyone who is armed, come with me. The rest of you remain hidden until the threat is cleared."

With that, he turned and ran outside, not caring how many followed him. He would have his revenge on the abominations that stole his friend from him.

**OIOI**

Legolas was startled from his deep thoughts into their predicament when a rabbit, small and skinny, was dumped to the ground at his feet. He looked up from where he sat to the towering man standing over him, casting him into shadow.

"Cook," the man from the tribes in Harad said slowly and in thickly accented Westron.

"Do I look like a servant to you?" Legolas demanded bitterly but the man just continued to stare down at him, no expression on his weathered, tattooed face. "Right, you don't even understand what I'm saying," he sighed deeply. He picked up the creature by the back legs and held it up to give it back to the man from Harad.

"Cook," repeated the man, ignoring the creature being held out to him.

"I'm not the cook," Legolas said slowly, getting up and shoving the rabbit forcefully towards the giant of a man. "You do it."

"Cook."

Angry now, the Elf yelled, "What part of 'no' do you not comprehend?" and dropped the dead animal at the man's enormous feet.

"Legolas!"

The Elf looked around to find Aragorn glaring at him in anger.

"What are you doing?"

Glancing back up at the big man, Legolas muttered, "Nothing." Then he walked away, calling back after him, "I'm going to search for firewood."

"We've already…" started Aragorn pointing to the pile of wood ready to be burned but his guardian had already hurried off, eager to be away from the others, it seemed.

To say that things had been strained between Aragorn and his mentor of late would have been an understatement. Legolas was annoyed at him, that much was clear. Nothing seemed to help. Aragorn had apologised many times, even though he was uncertain what, other than siding with Jecha, he had done wrong. Legolas had been consistently cold towards him though. The situation was not helped by the fact that Jecha and his band of followers were a particularly sullen bunch and barely spoke at all nor that Kalub had been sulking for the last two days after Legolas' rather public abasement of him.

"Get some rest," Jecha advised, approaching the young man.

"Yes," sighed Aragorn in return. With so much on his mind, he knew that finding rest even after an exhausting day of travel would be difficult. Nevertheless, he dropped his pack on the ground then plonked himself down next to it.

"Cook?"

Aragorn looked up to find the Harad man holding out the rabbit he had hunted earlier. Offering a small smile, Aragorn nodded. "Cook."

The big man nodded his head and sent Aragorn a smile in return, revealing broken, yellow teeth.

Sometimes Aragorn felt immense pity for the man. It turned out that he had only been with Jecha for a couple of months, having lived his whole life amongst a secretive but ruthless tribe in Harad very close to the Black Lands of Mordor and as a consequence of his isolation spoke very little of the Common Tongue. He had picked up a few words along the way and he did make the effort but it had mostly proved to be in vain. It was not like the Haradhrim were a particularly learned race at the best of times. Why exactly he had abandoned his homeland and his people to join with those opposed to the Dark One to whom the Haradhrim were primarily allied, Aragorn did not know. If Jecha was aware of his reasoning then he did not confide it and Aragorn did not feel it his place to ask.

As Aragorn removed his shoes, broken almost to the point of being useless, to knock out the stones that had gathered there making walking extremely uncomfortable, the Harad man built and lit a fire then started to skin the rabbit for cooking.

Soon, the two Dwarves came to join him around the fire, talking to each other in their own language as they often did. Aragorn liked the pair. Father and son named Gloin and Gimli long ago exiled from a place Jecha had called Erebor, once a haven for the Dwarves until Sauron's Goblin hoards had driven them to the brink of extinction and forced those surviving from the Lonely Mountain. In spite of the misfortunes of their people, they were always friendly, always in a good mood it seemed and full of stories for Gloin knew the old world well and Gimli was just about old enough to have known the world before Sauron's rise to power. In fact, they reminded Aragorn very much of the twin brothers, Carion and Veron, who ran with the Rangers.

Often they spoke of the great halls of the Dwarves filled with guests, of hospitality beyond all other races and of treasures too precious and creatures of legend too fearsome for Aragorn to even comprehend.

Even though he had never experienced any of the things they described, Aragorn felt something akin to nostalgia as he listened to their long, rambling tales. They were unlike anything he'd ever heard before. Legolas certainly had never spoken of_ his_ home with such love.

Legolas' irritation seemed to always be at its height when around the two Dwarves, even though he had made no effort to get to know them and always kept his distance. They too avoided the Elf and Aragorn wondered if perhaps there was some long-held grudge between the two races that he had not been made aware of. If so, he thought it ridiculous that Legolas kept the feud alive after all that had happened to him and the world in the intervening time.

Grima remained a captive of the group. Given that he was a thief, he was not to be trusted, so he was kept tied up and gagged – although now the gag was simply because the Dwarves had declared him to be intensely annoying when he pleaded for release.

At present the thief was being guarded by one of the three Gondorians travelling with them. Aragorn knew almost nothing about them. They kept very much to themselves, speaking only sparingly to the others in their company. The man was poorly dressed, much in the same manner as Legolas and himself, and he was accompanied by his wife, a quiet, timid young woman with thick black hair and blue eyes almost as striking as Legolas'. The third Gondorian amongst them was a small girl. She looked to be about nine years old but could have been older given that she was, like everyone else, severely malnourished. He deep brown eyes, akin to those of her father, darted constantly around and she clung most of the time to her mother, terrified, it seemed, of everything going on about her. So far, Aragorn had not heard her speak even once and she looked upon both him and Legolas with open fear and suspicion.

What a ragtag band of mercenaries he and Legolas were running with, Aragorn mused as he drank a small portion of the weak, rabbit-flavoured broth that the Harad man had prepared from a crudely rendered wooden bowl.

The truth was that Aragorn was uncertain whether joining Jecha and his band of Men and Dwarves was in fact the best course of action. His mentor's words of caution ever tugged at his indecisive mind, making him doubt his convictions somewhat. Going after a legendary army of ghosts was indeed an enormous gamble. It could very well prove to be a dangerous waste of time and energy. And yet, in spite of all his nagging doubts, he felt – no he _knew_ – that this was the right road to take.

He hated the consequences of overruling his most trusted guardian. Legolas had not uttered another word against his decision, not since his initial show of disagreement, and in fact had even shot Kalub down in flames for so openly speaking against Aragorn's judgement. And yet, despite this unprecedented show of protection, Legolas had still distanced himself from his ward. He barely spoke to Aragorn as they travelled across the plains and often the man spotted Legolas looking at him with something akin to disappointment, occasionally bordering on outright, unconcealed anger.

"You really should take some rest," Jecha told Aragorn as the Easterling finally joined the group now that camp security had been set up for the night and he deemed it safe.

With him came a man who Aragorn had actively distanced himself from ever since he had first been introduced.

It had been Jecha who had informed him of this man's heritage one night when Aragorn had summoned up the courage to enquire after his latest travelling companions. Wild Man. The words had chilled Aragorn's blood and the man, who Jecha had confirmed had no name that anyone knew of, did nothing to put Aragorn's mind at ease. He was, in a single word, frightening.

Filthy and seemingly purposefully unkempt, he mostly spoke only in low grunts, although his Westron was good enough to be understandable when he put the effort into it, and glared with wild green eyes at all others around him. There was no friendliness about him and even those he had travelled with for a while regarded him with obvious distaste. Around his thick, unwashed neck, he wore a clunky string necklace adorned with small brown-coloured bones, which Aragorn strongly suspected were not from any animal and more likely from something far more grisly. With him he carried at all times a large and filthy backpack, heavy and stained deep red in places. Given that when they had first come across the mercenaries they'd been deceived by the warning signs posted all around that they were trespassing on Wild Man territory, Aragorn could imagine all too easily what the man carried around in that bloodied pack.

Quite simply, the man sickened Aragorn to the core. It did not matter that he now professed himself to be an ally of the Light. Aragorn had decided that he would never like him and he doubted that anything the man did would ever change his mind.

"Right," the young man agreed, eagerly getting to his feet and turning away from the fire.

"Sleep tight, lad," called one of the Dwarves, Gloin the older of the two, Aragorn thought, as the boy laid himself down on the ground, staying close enough to the campfire to still feel its warmth.

Sleep rarely came easily or swiftly. Too much weighed on his mind. So, he laid awake, feigning sleep to satisfy those who might be observing him.

Unlike the more jovial Rangers and Rohirrim, these people did not speak overly much. For the most part, they sat in tense silence. Only the Dwarves spoke freely but they mostly stuck to their own language as they usually found themselves only conversing with one another unless invited to tell their stories to the group. It was surprisingly easy for the mind to drift to dark places when there was nothing to distract it and there was plenty of darkness for Aragorn to dwell upon. He missed the friendly banter, the easy laughter of the people he had come to call friends.

Snuggling deeper under his blanket, Aragorn tried to sleep. One thing that was still familiar, Jecha kept them going at a quick pace, stopping only at midday for a break and halting when he deemed it too dark to walk.

"Is he asleep?"

Legolas' voice startled Aragorn and he jumped slightly, his eyes snapping open. He had not heard his guardian's approach. He did not give up his pretence though and closed his eyes again quickly in the vision of sleep.

And the pretence was working well, as Kalub answered with a simple, tart, "Yes."

"Good."

"Can't stand to be around him when he's conscious, huh?"

The barb stung Legolas and Aragorn also flinched when he heard it. That would have hurt his guardian, as it had hurt him.

"Kalub, please," Legolas sighed, sounding horribly weary.

"You started this," snapped back the Ranger quietly, knowing perfectly well that Legolas would hear clearly what had been said.

"I started nothing."

"No?"

"No!"

"Could you two take this someplace else please?" Jecha cut into their churlish argument tersely. He had no patience for this dispute, as he had made quite clear several times already.

Kalub got to his feet, purposefully making himself look taller in a futile attempt to intimidate the Elf. Resting his twitching fingers on the handle of his sword, the man said, "I'm going to take a walk."

"No need." Legolas stepped away, telling the others, "I'll take the watch."

"Elf, don't you want some rabbit soup?" asked one of the Dwarves, nodding to the pot hung over the fire.

"I'm not hungry," growled out the Elf in a most unfriendly manner.

"He's not hungry." Kalub set himself back down, smiling softly to himself with a sense of satisfaction that he had once again bested the Elf at his own game. When he looked up, his smile dropped at the sight of Jecha glaring at him, dark eyes animated and glinting threateningly in the light of the fire. "What?"

"Was that necessary?" the Easterling asked questioned quietly.

Embarrassed at Jecha's stare ripping through him, Kalub glanced down at his hands, muttering childishly, "He started it."

"A very mature defence."

Turning angry again now, Kalub glared back at the leader of the mercenaries. "Is it any of your business?" he demanded rhetorically, getting up.

As Jecha shrugged nonchalantly at the threat, Kalub spun on his heel and then strode angrily away.

Rather than going after either the fuming Ranger or the Elf, Jecha just sighed. He could not get involved in petty squabbles. There was too much at stake. For a moment, he watched the flames lap at the dark sky and then he turned shrewd eyes to meet those of his Easterling companion – the only one who looked less impressed by Kalub and Legolas' spat than he.

**To Be Continued…**


	52. The Cursed

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thank you all for your reviews.**

**Alrighty folks, I hope you enjoyed the story so far and that you like this chapter.**

**Here we go.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 52 – The Cursed**

The sounds of the brutal battle still rang loudly in his ears. He could hear little else even now that the clashing of swords and the screams of the dying had subsided. Or maybe the screaming really did continue. He couldn't be sure.

All about Janor was now chaos. Men raced around, finishing off the Orcs that lay twitching and dying on the ground before they posed further threat. But many Men lay themselves dying, struck down by deadly Orkish weaponry.

Hands grabbed him by the shoulders and suddenly Eomer's bloody face was directly before his own, green eyes were wide with concern as they watched him.

"Are you all right?" the Rohan man asked seriously.

Cocking his head to one side and frowning, Janor yelled, "What?"

"Are you all right?" Eomer repeated in a slower, louder voice.

"Yes."

The commander grabbed Janor's chin and forced his head up a little, examining the source of the blood running down his face. "You cut your head."

Raising his hand, shaking fingers gingerly touched upon the wound at his hairline. "Oh," was all he could think of to say. Eomer spoke again, but this time the words seemed jumbled and senseless. So he asked again, "What?"

"Let's get you to a healer."

"No. No, I'm fine." Given that the ground was wet with Human blood, Janor imagined that the Rohan healers had their hands full with the mortally wounded. A cut was of little significance in comparison to the suffering of others. "Really."

Already, Eomer's eyes were darting around, assessing the carnage around them in order to decide where his presence would most be needed next.

"Go," Janor told him, pressing his palm to his head to staunch the bleeding. "I'm fine. Go. You're needed elsewhere."

For a brief moment, Eomer looked torn but when he heard someone desperately shouting his name, he turned to leave. "See a healer as soon as you can," the commander called back as he hurried away towards the distressed voice beckoning him.

Still dazed, Janor muttered, "Sure," then himself walked off. Confused though he may have been, the man still knew that he had to account for all his Rangers; technically, he was their commander now that Kinnale was no longer living and he had a duty.

"Please help!"

Janor spun around, very nearly losing his balance as a wave of dizziness engulfed him for his thoughtlessness, at the plea for the voice sounded familiar.

"Ciaran?" he called out loudly, his eyes searching the battlefield for the boy. "Ciaran!"

He searched for a while, stumbling inelegantly over the bodies of the slain and slipping on mud made boggy by blood, before he finally found Kinnale's son knelt on the ground, pressing down on the chest of a gasping young woman, trying in vain to stem the constant flow of blood pouring from a wound.

"Janor, help me!" he cried desperately.

The boy was drenched in blood but Janor could see no evidence that any of it was his. Relief washed over him and his knees went weak, forcing him to kneel lest he reach the ground in a less than graceful fashion. Immediately, it became obvious that the woman Ciaran was trying to help was already long past any aid. She was clinging onto the last thread of life but her eyes were already dull, her skin pale, her breath coming in short gasps from her open mouth.

"Ciaran, let go."

"What?" the boy demanded incredulously, his head snapping up to meet Janor's eyes.

"Let her go." He took Ciaran's arm and pulled it away so that his hand was no longer plugging the hole in the woman's now unmoving chest. "She's gone."

For a long moment, Ciaran sat staring blankly at the body and his bloody hands, clearly in shock at what had just happened right in front of him.

"Come on," Janor prompted as he heaved himself to his feet. "You can help me. There is much to do."

The body count was far larger than either commander of the Rohirrim or Rangers had initially anticipated. It was night before those who remained alive after the bloody battle finally moved out, eager to be away from this site of death. They wasted no time burning the corpses, leaving even their own dead to lie in the dirt. Scavengers would descend soon, both animal and Enemy, and the survivors did not want to be anywhere nearby when that happened despite the macabre scene they were leaving behind. It would be too much of a risk to linger considering their fatigue and massively decreased numbers.

Of the Rangers twelve had been slain in the fight, mostly those inexperienced soldiers who had volunteered before they had departed from Bree.

It had been the Rohirrim who had suffered the heaviest losses though. After Eomer had rounded up all the survivors, they had concluded that over half their number had been slaughtered. The Enemy had not distinguished between warrior and civilian. Women and children, having been flushed out of their hiding places in the cave networks, had been just as mercilessly attacked as the fiercely battling soldiers.

Weary, and their hearts heavy with grief, under Eomer's order, they had left. No one truly wanted to leave. They wanted to stay, respectfully bury their dead the way they deserved to be honoured, mourn their losses but in times of war and death there was not that luxury.

A force as great as the one they had just faced was no random patrol sent across the lands, Eomer had reasoned to the reluctant. It had been sent specifically to intercept and decimate the forces of Men.

The Orcs' armour had all born the emblem of Isengard. The White Hand.

Isengard and its turncoat Wizard was chasing them.

Knowing all too well the depths of the White Wizard's evil, Eomer had given the heart-breaking order for them to leave. He knew now that Saruman had their scent and he would not give up at the first defeat. The taking of Helm's Deep would undoubtedly still rankle the Wizard, perhaps it had even humiliated him before his master and that could not be tolerated by one compelled by power and pride.

From now on, the race of Men was truly a hunted people from all quarters.

**OIOI**

"'The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead. And the Dead keep it. The way is shut'."

"What do you suppose it means?" asked one of the Dwarves in a hushed voice after Legolas had translated the engraving above the unassuming crack in the mountain that served as the door into the Dwimberg before which they were now standing in an enclosed mountain pass thickly swathed in bright green moss and emanating the deepest chill Legolas had ever felt in his life. Something unnatural lived beyond here. He could feel it creeping across his skin and seeping into his soul. Pure evil.

"I believe it to be fairly self-explanatory," Jecha replied flatly, although his dark eyes twinkled in amusement when they flicked across to his irked sturdy companion.

"Creepy is what it is," reasoned the Dwarf, visibly shuddering as though it would emphasise his point enough that the others would agree with him. Little did he know that they needed no convincing. They agreed whole-heartedly with his summation.

His son then asked anxiously, "We have to go in there?"

"Afraid so." Jecha looked about himself. No one of the others stood at the entrance to the Dwimberg seemed overly enthusiastic to walk the Paths of the Dead. They all shared similar looks of fear and apprehension.

"It is so quiet," observed Gloin gesturing as though straining his ears for any sound that might indicate life beyond the doorway.

What he said was true. The air was completely still, not a breath of wind swept over them. No sound filled the path on which they waited, building up the courage to take the step inside; not a rustle, not a riffle of leaves. Nothing. Even the deep rumbling sound of the mountain of Mordor was curiously absent here, as if the paths were smothered in a thick blanket of silence that not even the Shadow could penetrate. It was eerie.

"We must take this road," Jecha prompted confidently, although Legolas noted that he showed no more inclination than any of his companions to tread the paths of the Dead.

Truth was, the paths frightened the Easterling just as much as they did the others. None who ever ventured this way ever returned according to the legends. What lay at the heart of the Dwimberg no one knew. Rumours no doubt did not do the true horrors of the City of the Dead justice. After leading the future King of Men all this way with the promise of an unbeatable, immortal army at the end, Jecha now feared to take it further. Perhaps death laid at the end for them, or perhaps it was something worse. He was in no rush to find out.

One of the Dwarves finally offered to Jecha, "You first," extending his hand towards the dark crack in the mountain.

For a Dwarf, natural underground creatures that they were, to also fear going into the mountain was not exactly encouraging for any of the others. The crevice looked so terribly dark; a deep, thick darkness that it seemed no torch would ever be able to lessen and no soul could endure.

"We cannot stand here staring at it for the rest of time," pointed out the Gondorian man, Bracell, although his feet remained firmly planted on the ground. As much as he might like to comment on their hesitation, he was not going to be the one to take the first step either.

Kalub looked to the blonde Elf stood just in front of him. "Legolas?"

The prince merely offered him a sideways glance. In that brief moment, Kalub registered fear in Legolas' eyes but also, rather more surprisingly, steely determination. At some point, Legolas seemed to have reconciled himself to going into the unknown. And yet he hesitated just the same as the others.

"What are you waiting for?" whispered Kalub harshly, knowing that the Elf would hear his question.

Legolas did not answer him though. He simply waited, watching the entrance to the mountain with the same steely look in his eyes.

For long moments, still no one dared to move, every second, the tension growing.

Something had to give eventually.

"I do not fear death," Aragorn declared so suddenly and so firmly that it startled everyone but Legolas who had been waiting patiently for just this moment.

Before anyone could react to the entirely unexpected statement, Aragorn had drawn Anduril and strode purposefully into the darkness of the Dwimberg.

There was a beat when everyone froze, stunned at the bravery – or stupidity – of the King of Men. Legolas moved first. Upon Aragorn's statement, he had nodded his head very slightly in appreciation and a small smile had graced his lips. Now, hardening his features and pushing back the force of his claustrophobia at the thought of walking underneath the earth, the Elf faithfully followed his ward through the crevice and into the darkness beyond.

"Let's go," prompted Jecha to the others, none of whom seemed particularly keen to go with Aragorn into the unknown.

However, each, save for Grima who was given little choice in the matter, was loyal to Jecha and so they followed him and the king inside.

The tunnels proved to be somewhat of an immediate disappointment. Dark they may have been but there was nothing especially terrifying to the cautious travellers obvious upon stepping inside. At least it settled their nerves, although Anduril remained drawn and ready and each warrior was ready for whatever might come their way. Complacency in a place like this could prove fatal.

They had no idea where the fabled City of the Dead was actually located but Aragorn kept true to the widest path, not letting himself get diverted down the smaller paths branching off from the main. Mostly, he had to feel his way along the path as it was too dark to see much of anything before him. The others stuck close, almost touching so as not to get separated. In this pitch black it would be easy to get lost – not an appealing thought in a place such as this. No one spoke; as if afraid their voices might summon some dark spectre to their location.

Unsure of how far they had walked due to the lack of daylight to guide them, Aragorn eventually brought them to a halt so they could take some rest.

Sleep proved impossible for most of them – only the Wild Man seemed thoroughly unconcerned about where they were headed for and their choice of campsite. Perhaps he had slept in worse places during his years, Aragorn mused as the man's snoring broke the silence. Most of them just sat quietly, reflecting upon this quest they had gotten themselves into. Here in the dank, dark tunnels beneath the mountain of the Dead, the idea suddenly seemed less appealing than when they had been speaking of it in the bright light of day in an open, airy space with no additional threat about them.

So deep was the silence that Legolas physically started when Aragorn's voice whispered close to his ear, enquiring, "Am I doing the right thing?"

Once his heart rate had calmed from the shock, the Elf looked to his anxious ward, seeing only a vague outline in the darkness, and answered in a soft whisper, "I cannot say for certain."

It was hardly the reassuring response that Aragorn had been looking for and Aragorn lowered his eyes in shame. Legolas had followed him into the dark to walk the Paths of the Dead without query or hesitation. Truthfully, he had rather hoped that this signified a change of heart in his sceptical guardian. But it seemed that this hope had been unjustified.

"But," Legolas continued after a moment, "I _believe_ that it is the right decision."

For a while, Aragorn sat stunned, staring gaping at his guardian. Then, "You do?" A lump of emotion came to his throat.

"I trust your decision, Aragorn. I should have had faith from the beginning that you knew what you were doing. Forgive me for ever doubting you."

Aragorn shook his head, even though he doubted that Legolas could see the slight action through the blackness. "I understand why you did not."

"Since you were a child, I have asked you to follow me, oftentimes with little explanation and with no good reason, and you have done so. Now that you ask the same thing of me, I have to trust you. You have more than earned that."

Legolas' hand came to rest on Aragorn's shoulder. The simple touch was filled with strength and comfort, as if it flowed from within the Elf, and Aragorn felt relief wash over him all of a sudden. His worse fear had always been that Legolas would one day abandon him to pursue his own path, leave him alone to lead Men he did not know in a war that was way beyond him. That was truly terrifying. An enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders with the knowledge that Legolas was going nowhere soon. This darkness and the date with Death that laid at the end of it did not look quite so terrifying in his eyes now.

**OIOI**

"Oh. Do not look down," Legolas quietly warned his young ward as they walked side by side.

Naturally, Aragorn's first instinct was to cast his eyes downward just as something cracked sickeningly underfoot. "Why would you say that to me knowing that was exactly what I would do?" the man asked in good humour, for, luckily, he could see nothing of what Legolas could due to the darkness.

"My apologies," Legolas replied with a quirk of the lips.

"What is that sound?" Another loud crack sounded from the uneven ground beneath his feet and he slipped on the surface, relying on his much steadier Elven guardian to stabilise him.

"Trust me when I tell you that you do not want to know."

"Very well."

"Bones!" an exclamation from the Dwarf Gloin startled all the others.

It was Jecha who demanded, "What?!" in the wake of the rather odd cry.

"Bones," repeated the Dwarf, still obviously in shock at his grisly discovery. "There are bones everywhere."

"So much for not panicking anybody," mumbled Legolas under his breath. How easy it was for the Dwarves to grate on his nerves; even when they clearly weren't trying; they seemed to have grown quite adept at it. Some things could not be changed by time and wars, he mused.

Aragorn hissed to his guardian, "That's what you didn't want me to see?"

"You wouldn't rather have lived in ignorance?"

Aragorn shrugged, although now he considered it, he would have preferred not to know the true nature of what cracked beneath his feet.

High pitched screams came from behind them and Legolas spun around, knowing already that they emanated from the Gondorian woman and her skittish daughter. This was precisely what he had been hoping to avoid with his silence. Panic would help no one. It spread like wildfire.

"No! You can't make me go in there. No!" This time it was Grima doing the shouting. He had shed his gag somehow and was digging his heels in, fighting against the two sturdy Dwarven guards with all his might.

As Legolas walked past, he snapped, "Shut up and get moving." He had no patience for the thief's fear or reluctance.

When he reached the woman of Gondor, desperately trying, along with her partner, to placate her still sobbing child, Legolas found sympathy flood his heart. Funny, how things changed. How little patience he had had with young Aragorn in those first years. And yet now, he felt like he wanted to help this little girl, ease the fear she must have been experiencing, just as he had Ciaran after Kinnale died.

It was plain for anyone to see that the girl was just too frightened to continue onwards. All this must have been utterly terrifying for her; the darkness, the prospect of ghosts at the end of the long tunnel and now a cave floor literally carpeted with the remains of the dead. Finally, it seemed that everything about this nightmare journey had become too much for her young mind to process and she could stand no more, go no further.

As Legolas knelt down before the child, coming to her level in an attempt to ease her fear of him. Her distrustful father, meanwhile, placed his hand on the handle of his sword, ready and willing to defend her from the strange Elf should anything happen that appeared even remotely threatening.

Legolas was undeterred, however.

"Listen to me," he said softly, although loud enough to be heard over the child's near hysterical cries, "I know you are deeply afraid of this place, but we must continue. We cannot leave you behind and we cannot turn back. The only course available to us is forward."

When the girl's crying did not falter in the face of his faultless reasoning, the Gondorian roughly grabbed Legolas' shoulder and pulled him back, snapping irritably, "You're not helping."

Legolas obediently stood back. Perhaps Aragorn's upbringing had not granted him the insight he had thought it had. Dealing with a distraught child was clearly still beyond him. He found himself to be rather disappointed that he had learned so little from Aragorn's turbulent childhood.

"Come on, sweetheart," coaxed Bracell, getting down on one knee before her just as Legolas had done moments before, only he confidently cupped her small face in his hands, hoping the physical contact would have some impact upon her. "You have to be brave now, all right? Can you do that?" He felt her nod gently against his palms, her cheeks wet with tears. "Good girl." Picking up his sword, he sheathed it for the first time since they had entered the dark tunnels under the Dwimberg and lifted his daughter up into his arms, deciding that carrying her was likely the most expedient way of getting out of this wretched place. When he took a step forward, with his frightened wife clinging to his arm, the man nearly walked into Legolas. "Go on then," he snapped, exasperated at the Elf blocking his way.

Opening his mouth to say something was rendered pointless when he could think of nothing intelligent that wouldn't result in a full out battle right here in the tunnels. So, Legolas simply settled for stepping aside to let the glowering man by.

The anxious and increasingly weary party continued onwards. At times, the silence and the seemingly endless darkness became almost too much for any of them to bear. Often, Grima could be heard whimpering to himself, gagged as he now was again, as they crunched across what it comforted no one to know were broken skeletons. For once, Aragorn wholly concurred with the larcenist's sentiment.

Even more than the thick darkness, it was the hush that unsettled Aragorn the most. Having never liked remaining in silence for any length of time, Aragorn found the quiet to be almost unendurable. And yet he, like all the others, still feared to break it. They were drawing near to their destination now. Even in the darkness he and everyone else could feel it.

The first true indication that they were almost upon the resting place of the Dead Army was the temperature. It plummeted so suddenly that it took them all by surprise and they faltered in their steps as though they had hit a physical barrier. In spite of the almost palpable fear among them, Aragorn led the group onwards. At his side, Legolas too remained steady. He may indeed have feared being trapped under the earth with an army of undefeatable murderous ghosts but he would not falter in his conviction to Aragorn now.

As the tunnel narrowed, forcing them to walk in single file for the first time since entering, a soft green haze, almost like a thin mist, surrounded them. The temperature dropped further still in the mist, leaving all of them shivering uncontrollably. The cold touch of death came upon them and the hairs on the backs of their necks stood on end, as if something inexplicable charged the air. The mist, it seemed to the observant, seemed to develop slowly into thin tendrils that grew thicker and more kinetic the further they advanced; branches of semi-solid green, brushing against the intruders, phantom fingers sent, it seemed, to scare and to discourage such intrusion into the land of the dead.

Boldly continuing onwards with Aragorn still in the lead, just moments later the group emerged onto a large plateau from which they got the most arresting view of the cavern where legend claimed the ghosts of the ancient army of traitors resided in their eternal torment. It took the breaths of each one away, so stunning was it to behold.

All along high, steep walls, carved into dark, crumbling stone, was a network of broken rooms, curiously illuminated by the strange green glow. It looked almost as if a great wind had swept by in the distant past, ripping off the edifices of these small compact dwellings and revealing the skeleton of the building within with the sole purpose of stunning into inactivity any soul brave or foolish enough to have preserved this far. Silence drenched the cavern, chilling the intruders further still – because they did indeed feel as if they were interlopers in this home of the silent dead.

For the longest moment, they could do nothing but stand and stare open-mouthed at the magnificent, chilling sight stretched before them.

Their reverie could not be indulged for long, however. As they had anticipated, their entrance to the mountain had not gone unnoticed.

Even as they stood, the hazy green light that had permeated the tunnels and cavern in which they now waited, shone with even greater intensity. It was still patchy in places though, fractured. At the same time, the mists lingering high up in the honeycomb of small, empty square homes grew steadily thicker and began to slowly migrate downwards, coming together until it seemed to transform into a luminous, solid green stream pouring, then sweeping through thin air to settle just above the plateau on which the group of mercenaries stood in terrified awe.

From this thick cloud, more tangible thin tendrils stretched down onto the plateau itself, before becoming almost solid once more.

Instinctively, Aragorn took a cautious step backwards so that he was in line with his guardian, who was watching the decidedly supernatural scene unfolding before them with narrowed eyes, gleaming bright green in reflection of the cloud. He did not seem scared but nor did he seem entirely unworried. Aragorn did not know what to make of such confusion within his normally certain mentor and so he shifted on his feet and waited to see what would come of this, praying that their end would not come before they did what they had ventured into this tomb to do.

Within the great cloud, Legolas could define the shapes of beings, sneering, snarling shreds of spectral flesh clinging to translucent bones, forming a mass of shimmering terror. Vague and unformed though they were, these beings could surely be none other than the fabled Army of the Dead. Taking control of this particular negotiation was not an option in this case, so he waited with practiced patience and no small amount of dread to see what would happen next with this impossible situation.

"Who enters my domain?" a low voice demanded in clipped, precise Westron, undiminished through time spent alone and isolated in the chambers of the dead.

Swallowing thickly and taking care to clear his throat before he spoke so that at least he sounded strong, Aragorn answered clearly with confidence he didn't know he possessed, "One who will have your allegiance."

The shape that had descended first onto the plateau had now morphed into the clearly defined figure of a man; tall, thin with features so much resembling a rotting corpse that Aragorn found it hard to look at. Beneath the green, transparent flesh, a more substantial skeleton, still formed of the odd mixture of light and cloud, could be discerned. A bizarre sight for anyone to behold. The being's slack jaw widened and a mocking laugh filled the chamber, echoing off the walls to give the illusion that his army joined the laughter. Indeed, all around him now stood more green-tinted spectres; a whole army, in fact. They now also joined in with the king's laughter, making the sound grow to be almost unbearable to hear.

"We answer to no one."

"You will answer to me," warned Aragorn in a low voice, boldly taking a step towards the King of the Dead, for there was no doubt who he was treating with.

Even though all the living carried weapons, they all knew that should it come down to a fight then blades of steel would prove useless against creatures already long deceased. The army, however, each carried individual weapons – swords, axes, spears – of opaque green; although according to legend they had no real need for such earthly weaponry. A mere touch would kill, as if they merely passed death on like a disease to those unfortunate enough to come into contact with their cursed spectres. Perhaps, Legolas mused, it was simply out of nostalgia or habit that they continued to appear in the apparel of their former selves with all the weaponry relevant to their time. Maybe it brought them some modicum of comfort during their confinement. A more formidable army there could not be.

Laughter swiftly followed Aragorn's declaration. It resounded all about the cavern, mocking and taunting and genuinely amused.

"And who is this who thinks he can command us?" the king, stood tall and proud, demanded haughtily.

Rather than replying with words, Aragorn simply raised Anduril before the king's face. He knew that these traitors, so connected to the once great kingdom of Gondor despite their bitter disloyalty, would instantly recognise the sword of kings. Narsil in any form was unforgettable.

Indeed, upon espying the Flame of the West, the King of the Dead immediately sobered; his body, formed from mist and light, faltered and he seemed to retreat away in the face of powerful re-forged steel. The others, too, stood back, melting away from the living, breathing King of Gondor as though afraid.

Perhaps, Legolas mused with some small hint of hope, there was one weapon on this earth that the invincible army feared.

"That blade…"

"Re-forged by the Elves of Imladris."

"Impossible."

"No." Aragorn shook his head and advanced on the king now that he knew at least his weapon was feared by the Dead. "Not impossible for it is now before you."

His form becoming more defined again, seemingly in defiance of what challenged him within his own domain, the King of the Dead maintained strongly, "That line was broken."

Tiring of speaking with these intruders into his dark realm beneath the mountain, the King of the Dead sped forward and raised his own spectral sword and swung it at Aragorn with all his preternatural might. Aragorn's reaction was instinctive in the face of attack. Cold steel could not cause harm to Death itself but his natural instinct did not register that and he raised Anduril to parry the blow.

Much to his amazement and the amazement of his attacking enemy, the two blades clashed, the grating noise filling the cavern.

Legolas was unsure who was more shocked at the outcome. Both kings, alive and dead, looked down with wide eyes at the touching blades. Although bright silver and quivering green ground against one another, neither the King of the Cursed not Aragorn made any further move to attack. There had been so many surprises already for both sides this day. Now was the time to take in the fact that the mortal had just equalled the Dead.

Slowly, the King of the Dead's head rose and, although his face remained expressionless in death, Aragorn thought he felt fear coming from the shimmering spectre.

"Impossible!" the king finally boomed in defiance, voice betraying anger that his body could not express. "That line was long ago broken."

"It has been remade." Aragorn's own voice was strong, confident and so very odd-sounding to those who knew him as the meek young ward of the Elvish prince.

"No!"

The Army of the Dead shimmered before the eyes of the living as they retreated. Against all the odds, this undefeatable army was scared of a young man who happened to wield the ancient sword and belong to the even more ancient bloodline of those they had brutally betrayed.

At long last, the Dead King disengaged his weapon from Anduril and retreated one step away from the man who wielded it.

Jecha threw a subtle glance Aragorn's way. Future King of Men: so Aragorn had declared himself to be when they had met. Was this child, under the guardianship of a mysterious Elven guide, really all he said he was or was there truly more behind his bloodline? What kind of power resided in that unassuming child that the King of the Dead himself would fear him? A troubling thought indeed.

Glancing behind thoughtfully at his alarmed army, the king seemed disconcerted. His form was flickering slightly, as if it wanted to retreat away from this new danger, return back to the sanctuary of the massive necropolis.

Aragorn, however, was not going to fade away. He stood firm. He took a bold step forward, Anduril raised, held in far more confident hands now that he knew that it had at least some effect on the ghostly presence surrounding him.

"Why have you come?" demanded the ghost.

"To relieve you of your curse."

All the spirits exchanged glances at this and Aragorn saw their mouths moving as if in speech although they emitted no sound that his ears could detect.

Suspicion fairly radiated from the king but he curiously asked, "Explain your meaning to me."

Travelling with the learned and eager-to-share Jecha, always so full of ancient wisdom and stories, Aragorn had taken every opportunity to learn all he could, even when he had appeared inattentive. The tale of the Men cursed by his forefather Isildur had understandably been of great interest to him. He had taken it all in, storing it in the back of his mind for just this moment.

"You are cursed; made to walk this earth, unable to rest because of your treachery. Isildur's blood runs in my veins; you know this. I can free you. Do you believe my claim?"

The king took a moment to consider this. He nodded once, chin raised in defiance. He did not like being powerless and beholden to this man, descendent of the one who had condemned him and his army to this living death for all time.

"And what," he asked, his voice booming, putting on a deliberately bold showing before the man who held his fate in his young hands, "would be the price for such a mercy?"

"Fight for me."

Laughter cackled out of the stuttering green spectre and he appeared to rise even further in height. Behind him, the rest of the army laughed too, the sound echoing chillingly around the vast chamber. The notion of loyalty amused them even now. It seemed their lesson had not yet been learned.

In the haunting light, Aragorn frowned, a faint blush colouring his cheeks at the reaction his plea had elicited. Had it been such a foolish request? Regardless of the taunting, Aragorn shifted on his feet and stood his ground. He would not be swayed easily now. They had come too far to falter.

"Fight for me," his voice sounded loud, impressively loud, in the cavern, even over the dulled, wheezing laughter of the Dead, "and I will hold your oaths fulfilled."

"Why should we trust the King of Gondor? Treachery runs as sure as blood through your veins, boy," said the King of the Dead, chortling with laughter but also laced with deep distrust and malice.

"Not all Men's hearts beat with cowardice as yours once did."

Soft the reproach might have been but it altered the atmosphere instantaneously. The laughter died and vacant eyes all looked to Aragorn. They did not take kindly to the jibe regarding their fragile honour, it seemed.

"We are cursed." It seemed a poor excuse for their past misdeeds but all the spectres nodded in unified agreement.

"Because you failed to answer to the call of your people."

"We would have been slaughtered."

"A more merciful end to your lives, perhaps."

Once more the king seemed to grow in size, becoming all the more intimidating for it. "Enough of this talk. Leave this place, Foolish One."

Stepping closer, Aragorn said, "I cannot."

"Then here you shall die, and spend an eternity in this city with us, The Cursed."

"Aragorn, that is not an appealing thought," muttered one of the men from behind the Human king, but Aragorn did not react to the soft hint. Fear may have been gnawing at his senses but he had come this far; there was no turning back now.

"Listen to me," Aragorn called out, even as the Army of the Dead slowly advanced towards the gathered living, surrounding the living and blocking their exit. Huddling together, weapons raised merely for the feel of comfort they provided in spite of their inherent ineffectiveness against this particular enemy, the living all looked pleadingly to Aragorn, praying this inexperienced king's words would not get them condemned to the fates of the Dead. "Listen to me; I can release you, bring you peace at last."

"Peace." The king laughed again as though the word had become a joke to him over the centuries trapped in eternal torment.

"What say you?" Aragorn demanded of them. The king chuckled again. "What say you?!"

Much to the intense alarm of the living, the Dead slowly began to fade from sight, changing from a solid, physical mass that had appeared very close to being corporeal, into the softly glowing mist from which they had descended in the first place.

"You're wasting your time with them," called Gloin angrily at the retreating army. "It is clear that they had no trace of honour in life and they have none now in death."

Ignoring the angry shout of the Dwarf, Aragorn called to the retreating ghosts, almost in desperation, "I am Isildur's heir. Fight for me, regain your lost honour and I will hold your oaths fulfilled." None paid his plea any heed. "Fight! Fight for me and I will release you from your terrible curse, from this living death you suffer." The mist continued to dissipate but Aragorn shouted up into the cavern as loud as he could, "Fight for me!"

The last distant echoes of laughter disappeared along with the green light and the haunted necropolis was once again plunged into deep, almost suffocating darkness.

Breathing heavily in the wake of the confrontation, Aragorn stared up helplessly at the honeycomb of bare chambers. No trace of the legendary traitors lingered. It was as if the whole encounter had never occurred at all.

First to break the silence was the man of Harad, his voice low as he declared uncertainly, "Spirits."

In the darkness, Legolas rolled his eyes at the pointlessness of that particular comment. "Aragorn?"

Before the man could speak of what had just transpired, however, Bracell, still clinging to his terrified wife and daughter, announced snappily, "Well, that was a resounding failure!" Aragorn opened his mouth to protest the comment but was cut off. "What a waste of time!"

Trying to persuade the man that this whole endeavour had not been his idea from the beginning but rather Jecha's, who boldly chose to remain silent, would no doubt prove pointless so Aragorn did not waste his breath. Unfortunately, the withering glare that he sent in Jecha's direction was of little effect in the darkness although it made him feel slightly better.

Calmly, Legolas prompted his fuming ward, "Aragorn, what next?"

Why was Legolas asking him? How was he supposed to know what to do? This whole thing had not been his idea in the first place and yet he had foolishly allowed himself to be talked into it. He had not imagined this outcome. He had no further plan.

Deciding that there was only one course of action left to them, Aragorn told everyone, "We should leave this cursed place."

Even as he spoke these defeatist words, a deep rumbling, like thunder rolling around the cavernous crypt, sounded, making them all jump. Grima actually yelped at the noise, understandable given that it was nothing natural that could have created the sound.

"What is that?" asked one of the Dwarves sharply.

"I've no idea," Aragorn admitted quietly, his eyes darting about, looking futilely to the walls for the source. At his side, he could sense Legolas doing the very same thing. Suddenly, Aragorn felt immensely grateful to still have Anduril heavy in his hand. "Legolas?" he whispered, voice thick with uncertainty.

"Go," said Legolas in return, his command firm but still quiet amidst the noise of the cavern.

Only nodding once in agreement, Aragorn called out the order, "Get out!" to the others waiting anxiously for his decision. Just as they started moving, the walls began to tremble; dust fluttered down upon them and all instinctively looked upwards. Dust was rapidly followed by something more substantial and a loud crash sounded from somewhere deep inside the mountain graveyard. One crash followed another and seconds later they were enlightened as to what was happening. Skulls, painfully obviously Human, began to rain down on the group, dropping from the top levels of the tiered crypt to smash on the solid stone floor.

"Get out!" Aragorn yelled above the racket and the group burst into sudden action, sprinting not back to the way they had come for that exit had already been blocked by falling stone as the whole structure crumbled around them, but rather towards a narrow crack in the stone. "Go! Go!"

Falling back so that he could be certain that everyone kept together, Aragorn looked up to the pitted walls and saw an ominous green light lurking above. The Dead were awaiting them.

"Aragorn!" Kalub grabbed the younger man by the arm, startling him from his unintentional reverie, and dragged him roughly away.

Legolas did not know where he was leading the group. He ran blindly, following the low, narrow tunnel they had plunged thoughtlessly into. Behind him were urgently pounding footsteps, nearly drowned out by the sound of the mountain cavern disintegrating. Legolas had no idea where Aragorn was either but he prayed that his ward was keeping up with their flight.

Dust, thick and foul-smelling, engulfed them all and they choked on it, keeping up the pace as best they could. The fear that before they had a chance to escape they very well might be buried alive in this haunted mountain to rest alongside the cursed dead almost overwhelmed them as they outran the falling necropolis; even the Dwarves, whose natural instinct was to be under the earth dreaded that they might be trapped here.

The run felt like it took hours rather than the few short minutes. Finally though, Legolas found himself tumbling out into the relatively fresh air. Coughing and spluttering as he tried to clear his throat of the cloying dense dust, Legolas blinked furiously, looking about himself as soon as he was able to open his streaming eyes to reassure himself that Aragorn and the others had made it out before the tunnel collapsed in an impressive blast of rock and dust.

"Aragorn?" Legolas shouted at the blurry shapes stood before him, each bent over trying to clear their lungs and catch their breaths. "Aragorn!"

"Here," rasped a breathless voice. "I'm here."

Relief soared through Legolas' heart at knowing his ward was well and finally he found that he could think with more clarity. He dropped his knives to the ground and his bag followed. Crouching down, he squinted at his bag's contents before settling for fumbling about until he located his water flask.

Once he had rinsed the grime from his stinging eyes, Legolas could at least tell that Aragorn, although caked in dust, was not harmed. Despite their lack of success, they had done what no other, according to legend had ever done – escaped the Dwimberg with their lives.

**To Be Continued…**


	53. Promises Made

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 53 – Promises Made**

"All this was for nothing!" yelled Bracell angrily as he wiped his eyes dry with the sleeve of his shirt, serving only to smear dust and grime across his face.

"Shouting is not going to alter the outcome any," Aragorn sighed heavily. He understood that the man was angry. He was angry. Things had not turned out how he had led himself to hope they would. They had gone out of their way, lost precious time and put innocent people in danger on a fruitless errand based on nothing more than an elaborate ancient ghost story passed down through generations. It had been foolish, Aragorn now realised. The unreliable, unrepentant Army of the Dead were never going to help the living, not even for the future King of Gondor and his promises of clemency.

"No?!"

"Bracell, that's enough." Jecha's firm warning immediately silenced the suddenly outspoken man and, sending one last abstinent glare at the young king, he moved away to tend to his wife and daughter, still understandably shaken from the nightmare they had been forced to endure in the tunnels under the Dwimberg. Once he had gone, Jecha turned back to Aragorn, mildly surprised to find no look of relief or gratefulness on his face at his intervention, and said, "We need to decide what to do next."

"There is nothing to discuss in that regard," stated Aragorn in a cold tone, folding his arms tight across his chest. "This was a failure. Now we head towards Gondor and meet up with Eomer as was our original intention."

All eyes were turned on Aragorn as he spoke. "Are you sure that is the wisest choice?" Jecha asked calmly, his dark eyes shrewdly watching the younger man's face.

"I believe so."

Straight away, an argument started up between Kalub and Bracell at this, one arguing in favour of Aragorn's plan, the other arguing against. Each was convinced that their idea was correct and they kept at one another even as the Dwarves and the larger man of Harad moved in to pry them apart.

Aragorn sighed, looking away, and laid his hand upon his forehead as if it might clear his mind of the too many thoughts rolling around inside and prevent the headache that threatened to form. Fighting was clearly not getting them anywhere and yet these men seemed intent on continuing with the futile activity. Besides, his decision was made. He was not going to go back on it because two men voiced their opinions louder than the others. Strength – that was the impression a leader must give. Legolas had imparted that wisdom upon him once and he clung to that advice now.

As the yelling continued, Aragorn glanced back to Legolas who stood calmly watching the melee of people arguing with one another. Each side of the Elf stood the two Easterlings. Jecha appeared completely unruffled, both by the on-going argument and the fact that they had just been negotiating with the commander of an army of spectres and nearly gotten buried alive beneath the earth. He met Aragorn's eyes and nodded sombrely. Aragorn would receive no protest from the Easterlings.

Sighing, the young man turned away again and immediately frowned. He'd been so absorbed in the argument and the fact that this mission had been such a spectacular failure that he hadn't even realised that they had come out of the mountain in a place unknown to them.

Squinting his eyes, Aragorn looked out over a wide, murky river almost ridiculously packed with large, solid-looking boats bearing great black sails hanging limply due to the lack of wind.

"It's the Port of the Corsairs," explained Jecha, now at his side to answer the unasked question.

"What is a port?"

Jecha frowned in confusion behind his mask of perfectly straight black and red cloth.

When he did not immediately provide an answer, Legolas stepped forward and explained in his place, "It is where sailors dock their ships."

"And Corsairs?" He was unfamiliar with the name or race.

Legolas opened his mouth to speak but Jecha got there first this time, "Pirates. Mercenaries working in allegiance with the Dark Lord. They patrol the rivers, ferrying slaves from across the lands to Mordor and Isengard and the other fortresses of Shadow. Corsairs are a vicious people, compelled to do evil as much for personal gain as loyalty to the Shadow Lord. They are a cruel and dangerous race, Aragorn. We would do well to avoid them."

"Corsairs," Aragorn muttered under his breath in a thoughtful manner, still gazing out over the dirty water of the Anduin.

Cocking his head to the side in question at his ward's sudden thoughtfulness, Legolas enquired softly, "Aragorn?"

Aragorn shook his dark head to clear it and smiled at his guardian. "Nothing." After shooting a disapproving glance at the still on-going scuffle, Aragorn prompted curtly, "We should get moving."

Legolas followed his ward's gaze idly then turned to Jecha, saying in a somewhat bland tone, "You should break that up."

Clearly the man was not overly impressed by the notion of him being delegated the task of breaking up the feud between his followers. He looked about ready to protest at the suggestion but his companions' firm glare told him that this might be in poor judgement so he promptly nodded and strolled over to the brawl in order to break it up before it actually came to physical blows – a very real possibility judging that tempers were ever fraying further.

Meanwhile, Aragorn looked to his guardian, saying softly, "I am sorry."

Tearing his attentions away from the group of fighters who were now being placated by an extremely – and rather comically – annoyed Jecha, Legolas turned shining eyes towards his uncertain ward. "What for?"

"All this."

"I don't…"

"You warned me right from the start that this would never work but I chose not to listen to your wisdom and plunged blindly into the Dimholt on this fool's errand. All we succeeded in doing in the end is wasting more valuable time. I'm sorry. I should have listened to you," the young man apologised in a low voice so that his doubts could not be overheard by those who had designated themselves his followers.

For a long, slightly uncomfortable moment, Legolas simply stared at him, his gaze unreadable even to one whom by now should have been better able to. Then the Elf smiled softly in reassurance and laid his hand on Aragorn's stooped shoulder with no hesitation.

"There are going to be a great many difficult decisions in your future, Aragorn. Sometimes they will be right, occasionally they will prove wrong." Aragorn dipped his head at the insinuation that he had gotten this particular decision incorrect. "You don't ever have to worry over my allegiance. I will always be by your side and defend your choices. Always do what you believe to be right and you will do just fine in your task."

Aragorn's gaze came up to meet his mentor's and he grinned widely. "You couldn't have told me that a week ago?"

"And make things too easy?" Legolas smiled in return. "Hardly."

"I suppose I did deserve your censure."

Legolas sobered at this and met Aragorn's eyes with a serious, steady stare of his own. "Aragorn, the time is coming when you will have to lead your people against unimaginable power drenched in pure evil. You need to be strong, confident. You must not always be concerned that you are upsetting your friends. Do what you must and those true to you will be at your side no matter what."

"It's hard to…I don't know how to…"

"Of course it is hard. Being a leader is tremendously difficult. It is supposed to be challenging. But people will respect you for your strength and they will love you for your indecision when it comes to putting their lives on the line. You have everything you need to be a king, Aragorn; you simply have to learn how to put that knowledge into action and to trust in your convictions."

"Is this how you felt when you ruled in Mirkwood?"

It was a dangerous question to ask the Elf and indeed Legolas flinched as if physically struck. His eyes momentarily darkened with the familiar deep pain of memories dredged to the surface anytime Aragorn mentioned his past. But then he forcefully cleared his mind so that he could answer his ward's genuine question with frankness that just a few years ago he would have found impossible.

Much to Aragorn's immense surprise, Legolas actually managed a chuckle, although he had to admit that it did sound horribly strained. He gripped Aragorn's shoulder tight as he said mirthfully, "I never had cause to treat with the Dead. You have already outdone me."

Although Aragorn also laughed, he corrected himself, "I meant the leadership side of it."

"I know you did." Legolas' eyes flickered down again before he answered. "It's harder for you, Aragorn. The world is changed. Things are very different for you now than when I was commander in my own home. You have to find your own way."

Aragorn had rather hoped that his guardian and mentor would impart some greater wisdom, something firm and decisive that would make his transition into kinghood that much easier. But then, he reasoned, Legolas had never been particularly inclined to provide him with straight answers. It was an irritation now that he needed advice but he expected it.

"All right," he shrugged. "Helpful. Thank you."

Legolas smiled, a smile that appeared to be genuine lighting his face with the knowledge that his ward had finally learned to be a little diplomatic during his time travelling with him, although he still had some work to do.

"You are most welcome. Now we should help Jecha restore order amongst his people and then leave this cursed place."

Once Aragorn stepped into the fray with a sharp word, it was quickly broken apart. They were not going to disobey their king and Aragorn's voice alone, low and commanding as it was, was enough to restore order. He snapped angrily at them that fighting amongst themselves was neither sensible nor constructive. At least a few of them had the good graces to look ashamed of their childish behaviour. Jecha stepped out of the group, straightening out his burgundy robes, which for the first time since Aragorn had met him appeared displaced.

Taking a moment, Aragorn looked at the faces of the eclectic group of followers he had gathered to him on his journey. He frowned then when he realised something was missing.

"Where is Grima?"

Startled that the slimy man was not stood amongst them, everyone began looking about for their larcenous captive but it was to no avail.

This time, Aragorn demanded of them all in a shout, "He escaped?!"

"Damn it! That slippery snake!" Legolas cursed loudly, looking all around for any sign of the missing man. The scuffle had been going on for a while now and he and Aragorn too had been preoccupied; Grima could have covered some distance since his escape.

"Spread out," Jecha commanded. "Find him."

"No, wait." All paused in their actions at Aragorn's contradictory order, all curious as to why it had been given. When Aragorn's gaze fell upon Legolas' face he found it to be understandingly impassive, waiting patiently for the next decision to be declared. "Let him go."

"Let him go? Are you crazy?!" Kalub suddenly shouted at him, detaching himself from the others to stand toe-to-toe with Aragorn. "He stole the Seeing Stone from us!" Aragorn nodded in acknowledgement, cool and calm for a change, as he recognised Kalub's justified argument. He was certain this time of his decision, he realised. It proved a rather relieving feeling considering he had almost always been plagued by self-doubt in the past. Looking from Aragorn to Legolas, Kalub exclaimed in disbelief, "Legolas, tell him!"

Suddenly, Legolas found all eyes on him. A part of him did want to protest. He was still furious with that slimy, filthy thief. He wanted Grima to pay. But he would not show up his newly confident ward before the others.

"You heard him," the Elf told Kalub in an austere voice. "Let us leave."

"I can't believe you…!"

"Enough," interrupted Jecha, shoving past the Ranger. "The King has spoken." For the first time, the Easterling bowed his head in respect to Aragorn.

It startled Aragorn so much that he stood frozen and speechless for a long moment. Uncertain of how to respond, he instinctively looked towards Legolas for advice on how to proceed. The Elf held a look of knowing, almost as if he had been anticipating this very moment. Certainly, he did not seem overly surprised by the slight genuflection.

Aragorn, however, could not have been more shocked. Except, that is, until his eyes travelled over the others, who also had their heads bowed in deference.

"No," he gasped in near horror. He was not used to this and he wasn't sure he liked it. "Please."

Once more he looked pleading to his guardian but to his horror he found that now Legolas too had his head bowed, his right hand resting in respect and love over his heart.

"Please don't. Legolas…You don't have to…"

"Your Majesty."

Aragorn jumped at the title coming from the deep voice behind him. Spinning around, he found himself face to face with the King of the Dead and his army of spectres. Although his mouth fell open, ready to exclaim in shock, no sound actually managed to escape him.

"If you vow to release us when the fight is done then we will fight for you," the ghostly king announced severely.

Slowly, Aragorn nodded his head in agreement. He would honour the deal he had made back in the vast necropolis beneath the mountain in exchange for an unbeatable, fearsome army of the Dead.

"When Gondor is retaken, you shall be free."

The King of the Dead Men of Dunharrow narrowed his eyes, ascertaining whether this was indeed genuine. Then, after Aragorn endured a stare that most living mortals would have quailed before, the ghostly king nodded once.

"Call on us, King, and we shall come to the ancient City of White."

"Thank you."

No more words were exchanged between the two kings. The pact had been made.

**OIOI**

"Eowyn?"

The woman quickly ducked her head, frantically wiping at her wet face with the sleeve of her shirt.

"Yes?" Steadier than she could have hoped for.

It would not fool her brother though and, undeterred, he lowered himself to sit at her side, perfectly angled so that he could peer forward and see her face. "Are you well?"

"Of course." She swallowed thickly, nodding her head. Knowing that her observant brother would need more reassurance than that, she turned her face directly towards him and attempted a smile. "I'm fine, brother."

Green eyes stared into hers for a long moment, critical, questioning. Then, he raised his hand to her thin cheek, rubbing his thumb across the remaining, hastily erased tear tracks. "I remember as a child what a shocking liar you were, sister. Little has changed."

She scoffed, finally looking away from her brother. "Everything has changed."

Now that his hand had been shoved away, Eomer instead laid it on his sister's shoulder. "What is wrong?"

"Everything," she snapped in seeming anger. "Everything is wrong, Eomer. Look at us. We are hunted. Those creatures killed…killed so many of us." Tears fell freely from her eyes but she was not ashamed; they were justified.

"I know. Their deaths weigh heavily upon my heart also."

"Why are we doing this?"

His brow creased in confusion and he was compelled to query, "Doing what?"

"This. Going up against the Shadow. We can never win. They will keep coming for us until we are completely destroyed."

"And we will fight them until the very end."

"What end?"

Eomer cocked his head in question. Never before had Eowyn questioned their path. She had followed quietly and loyally ever since they had fled the Deep. She had even asked her brother and others amongst their acquaintance to give her some lessons in how to wield weapons. Although she had once been proficient in using a sword, her time in the dungeons of Helm's Deep had left her weak and uncertain, her skills and reflexes significantly dulled over time. She had been admirably determined though.

"What do you think is going to happen, Eomer? Honestly."

"Aragorn is…"

She scoffed again, louder this time, her eyes turning up to the dark clouded skies. "King? So everyone keeps saying. So he gets to Gondor, retakes the throne. Then what?"

"I don't know."

"The Dark Lord is not going to just surrender because a Man sits on the throne, is he?"

"No, I suppose not."

"At some point, we will have to fight him and his armies. And more of us will die. Maybe all of us. Then it would all be over. All of this will become pointless."

"Eowyn," sighed the commander, "you cannot think in that way."

"Why not? What are we following here?" she demanded, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. "Aragorn might not prove our salvation, you know."

"I thought you trusted him."

"I like him, Eomer, I do. He is a good man, I can tell. But that doesn't mean he knows what he's doing."

"You trust Legolas though, don't you?"

Eowyn raised her head at the mention of the Elf, an unusual admiring light sparking briefly in her eyes. "Of course I trust him."

"So you trust him but not me?"

"I didn't say that. Don't twist my words."

It was obvious that Eomer was offended by her apparent lack of confidence in him, for it had been he who had taken the ultimate decision to align the Rohirrim with the future King of Gondor and his already loyal Rangers. That his own flesh and blood did not believe in this cause…What did that say about his other followers? Did they also lack faith in their leader? This was indeed a troubling prospect if it was true.

"What other choice do you think we have?" he asked softly of her, trying to swallow his disappointment in her low view of him. "That man is all we have."

Shaking her head, pausing to swipe short blonde hair back off her forehead, Eowyn told him in a quiet voice, "It's not enough."

"Well, it'll have to be." Determination strengthened inside him and he hardened his heart against his own nagging doubts. "Maybe we will all die in the process but sitting back and waiting to be slaughtered by the minions of the Dark Lord is hardly an appealing alternative. I don't know about you but I plan to go down fighting, rid this earth of that twisted master of Shadow for once and for all."

Such rousing speech should have been saved for a battle occasion, Eowyn thought as her brother's fierce words sank in.

A hand was laid against her shoulder and immediately she felt comforted.

"But," he started, so much calmer now, "if you wish it, Kinnale spoke of the home town of the Rangers, Bree, and that their families had been left behind there. I could send some guards to escort you there where you will be safe."

Eowyn could not deny that the prospect of safety, tucked away far from the violence of war was so appealing to her in spite of her desire to make a difference to the overall outcome. And yet something pricked at her conscience and she knew that she could not leave. It was not merely a sense of duty that stayed her. Only recently had she been blessed by the mysterious Elf, given a rare second chance and allowed to see her beloved brother once more. She knew that she owed people for these bestowed gifts.

She could not now abandon those she loved and respected.

"No," she said after a while. "No, I will stand and fight beside you."

It broke Eomer's heart to hear the words coming from his little sister's mouth. He did not want to see her plunge headlong into battle that it was true that they could never win. Surely the only possible outcome of such action was failure and to that end, death. But nor did he want to send her away, not after everything the family had already endured. Torn between the two, he remained unsure.

Releasing a sigh of breath, Eomer pulled the fragile form of the woman into his arms, enveloping her in a hug that comforted him almost as much as it did her.

"Eomer?"

The commander looked up, biting his lip to keep from snapping at the intrusion on a rare moment of peace with his sister. Instead, he lifted his head from where it had come to rest against Eowyn's. "What is it now, Janor?"

"It's Ciaran."

Eomer's eyes dropped closed in sadness at the mention of Kinnale's son. How he had wanted to look after that boy in the absence of Kinnale and Legolas, to be as a mentor and guardian to him. Always had he felt responsible for his people but after the young man had been through so much, lost so much, he felt even more so. He had failed to protect Ciaran and the rest of his people during the battle. And now things were fast going downhill and Eomer felt completely useless.

"Is Valon with him?"

"Yes but…He is asking for his father and when I explained to him that Kinnale was…gone, he demanded to speak to you and now he will not settle. Valon wants you to come and see if you can calm him down."

Of all the people in this ragtag group of displaced Men, Eomer thought that Ciaran deserved this the least. The boy had been through more than enough for one lifetime, losing his father in the most dreadful way.

"All right," Eomer sighed heavily, unwrapping his arm from where it still rested around his sister. Before he got to his feet, he pressed a kiss onto Eowyn's forehead, muttering, "Get some rest," hoping that would be consoling enough to allow her to endure the rest of the night amidst her troubled thoughts.

"You need to rest too," she called after him as he walked away with the anxious Janor at his side.

To himself, Eomer acknowledged with a sigh, "I know."

"Where's my father?"

"Ciaran, you know that your father is not here." Eomer knelt down next to the boy, snagging the trembling hand that had been extended imploringly towards him as soon as Ciaran's eyes had spotted his approach. "You know this." His free hand laid against the child's fevered brow in a poor attempt at comfort.

"Did you see?" Ciaran asked, pleading for an answer, his eyes wide and alert.

Eomer cast a glance up at the worried-looking Janor, who shrugged to indicate that he had no clue what Ciaran was talking about and gave the impression that he and the others around had had to put up with such random questions for a good time.

"See what?"

"The Shadows."

"What shadows? There are no 'shadows', Ciaran. Nothing is here."

Ciaran let out a keening wail then, his free hand came up to grip hold of Eomer's jacket. "The shadows. They are coming," he breathed, a mix of pleading and terror written on his pale face. "They are here!"

Spooked by this eerie premonition, the commander of the Rohirrim glanced around himself but as far as he could tell there was nothing untoward lurking in the bubble of firelight that encompassed the Men's camp. Beyond the light though, he could not be certain and a shiver crept up his spine.

"There is nothing here."

"I saw them."

"Saw what? What are you talking about?" It wasn't that Eomer was angry with the boy for his confusion. He was afraid. "Ciaran?"

By now though, the boy had fallen back to sleep, his chest heaving with the effort of every breath he took.

Getting up to his feet, Eomer ran his hand over his face in attempt to refresh himself enough to form a coherent sentence.

"Valon, how is he?"

"Fevered but it will pass," answered the trusted Rohan healer, stepping forward whilst wiping his hands clean on a rag. "Orc poison can be dangerous but his dose was low. It'll be completely out of his system in a couple of days. After that he should make a full recovery. He was immensely lucky."

'Lucky', the healer called it. Indeed, the young Ranger had been lucky. Had Janor not insisted that he be checked over by a healer, more for shock than injury after he had tightly held the hand of many a dying man on the battlefield, they would not have spotted the poisoned wound until too late.

"Well that is some good news at least." The commander's eyes fell to the healer's hands, stained slightly red with the blood of many Men. "And the others?"

"Dropping like flies."

Anger surged in the commander's chest at this overtly flippant remark, callous for one of the physicians. "Is that really necessary?" he half- sighed, half-growled.

"My apologies." Tired as he was, Valon had let his professionalism slip around one that he had always deemed to be a friend and he regretted it for he knew that Eomer's guilt ran deep. "So far, thirty-two dead. The Orc's poison was strong. There was nothing I could do to spare them. There is no cure for those deeply infected."

"And how many now ill?"

"Another fifteen, not including Ciaran."

Forty-seven dead in total, killed pointlessly in a single, brutal attack, all under his command. They had not expected the Orcs, had not anticipated their fierce numbers and could never have predicted the use of more sophisticated weaponry in the form of poisoned arrows. Outnumbered, the Men had never stood a chance; even less of a chance given the use of long-range, incredibly effective weaponry.

The body count was overwhelming. It was more than Eomer had ever witnessed under his command, more even than he had seen slaughtered at Helm's Deep, more than any sane, rational person could deal with. In the past, protecting his small cluster of people who had remained safely ensconced in the Golden Hall of the Horse-lords, Eomer had considered himself to be a good commander. Now, he did not believe himself to be so. In fact, he thought himself a rather poor excuse for a leader.

"All right," he finally breathed out.

"How long do you think before Legolas and Aragorn return?" Janor asked of him.

"Oh, I don't know if they're even still alive."

Valon stepped in, hissing, "Do not let anyone else hear you talking like that." He looked around himself even though it was the dead of night and all but the guards and a couple of surviving healers tending their patients were still awake. "People are scared enough as it is."

"Scared of what? The damage has been done already," Eomer snapped out without even thinking what he was saying.

"Eomer," the physician warned in a low voice. "You shouldn't speak like that."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Valon. I'm just tired."

"Yes, well…Be that as it may, spreading fear will help nobody."

Eomer nodded, scraping his untidy hair back from his face. "I know that."

"People are looking to you for strength and calm."

"Didn't you just hear me say that I understand?"

"Indeed I did. And now you need to get some sleep, my young friend."

"There is much yet to do."

"Not tonight there is not. Certainly, there is nothing that Janor cannot handle. Isn't that right, Janor?"

"Uh, yes. Of course," replied the new commander of the Rangers, startled at suddenly being placed in charge. Even now, he was pining for Kinnale, for the deceased commander's rationality and leadership skills. For years he had followed the man, watched him leading with confidence and wisdom. How he wished that he possessed the same qualities as his mentor. Serving as second in command had been different; responsibility for the big decisions, for people's lives had not fallen to him. He missed those days of simplicity, simply following a better man.

"You are exhausted, Eomer; you have to sleep," Valon told the commander with something almost akin to cheer, flinging his arm across Eomer's broad shoulders, guiding him away from the patients' area. "You are no good to us only half awake."

"Very well." Really, he was too weary to argue over this.

"One night's sleep will do you good."

"I just agreed to do as you say."

"I know you did," smiled the healer. "I'm just…reiterating."

"Many thanks!" growled Eomer as he moved out of the glow of firelight in an attempt at finding somewhere quiet to settle down. He thought that he might be able to grab a couple of hours sleep before he was woken by the dawn and another relentless trek.

**To Be Continued…**


	54. United Allies

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews. Special thanks to Tamuril2 for your encouragement when I needed it!**

**Hope you enjoy the next chapter!**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 54 – United Allies**

"Commander! Commander, something approaches!"

Eomer startled awake, the soldier's urgent call rousing him from the first decent sleep he had enjoyed in months. Although his brain remained oddly fuddled with the remnants of slumber, Eomer tossed his blanket aside and snatched up his sword that rested close to his side and shot up out of his spot. Taking a brief moment to swipe tangled hair from his eyes, he noticed that the camp had been plunged into utter chaos and confusion as he slept so he dashed off in the hope of determining through a coherent report from one of his men what had occurred to upset everything so greatly in such a short amount of time.

"Janor, what is going on here?" demanded Eomer when he finally picked out the hassled-looking Ranger from the throngs of Men rushing all about him.

Coming to an abrupt halt at the sound of his fellow commander's voice, Janor hurried over to him and breathlessly explained, "Tarsem was patrolling further afield around the camp in order to secure the area, he saw a party of people headed this way, he couldn't identify them from the distance he dared observe them from."

Eomer looked around, noting that the fires around the camp still burned bright, a beacon in the night for anyone sporting for a fight.

"Damn it! Put the fires out! Weapons! Get ready to fight!" shouted Eomer to whoever around him was listening. People immediately scrambled to do his bidding and he found himself a little irked that it had taken this long and his intervention to organise everything. Janor should have been perfectly capable of giving that exact same order. Of course, people were understandably anxious about the possibility of another attack, so much had been lost in battle already. They could not stand any more casualties. "Where are they coming from? Which direction?"

"That way," Tarsem pointed out into the darkness when Eomer came to join him at his side.

"How many?"

"I cannot tell."

Quickly formulating a plan, of sorts, Eomer shouted, "Get the horses."

The Rohirric warriors burst into action, far more organised than a moment before when they had been running about the camp without direction. Soldiers liked to follow orders. It was trained into them over decades. They could function without them of course but when in the presence of experienced leaders, they appreciated the guidance. Eomer understood this; more it seemed, than the Rangers, who seemed rather more free spirited.

With frankly surprising speed, their twelve remaining steeds, the Rohirrim's most valuable assets, were untethered from their resting places and brought forward to where Eomer waited for them, gazing out into the darkness as though he could see straight through it.

"Remember your training," called Eomer to his skittish men as he easily mounted his steed.

It was all the instruction they required. They were the Rohirrim, the Horselords, and great warriors. Against any threat they would stand, undaunted, and ride into the Shadow to protect those they loved and followed.

Drawing on years of practice defending Edoras and adapting it to this new situation, ten of Rohan's best riders and warriors mounted the steeds. With Eomer and Tarsem at the head, the horses moved out of the camp, smoothly accelerating into a canter once they were clear of the others.

"What should we do?" one breathless Ranger asked of Janor, who was staring after the horses.

Everything had happened so fast that Janor found himself struggling to catch up with all that had just occurred before him. "We…uh…We ready ourselves for attack. If Eomer is unsuccessful then we will need to be prepared. Get everything ready for battle."

"Yes, sir."

**OIOI**

"Be on your guard," warned Eomer in a low voice to his companions as they edged their horses forward through the night.

Upon Tarsem informing him that they were approaching the spot where the scout had earlier seen the dim light of torches, Eomer had slowed his small company to a gentle walk, all on high alert for anything out of place. The commander was nervous. He could feel the tension in his steed beneath him and tried to relax his posture. He was making the animal nervous. It was impossible to avoid though. They were all nervous being out here up against an unknown foe. Anything could be stalking out there in the shadows, perhaps even watching the Rohirrim's approach and waiting to spring their trap. The possibility that they were currently moving into a trap set by the Enemy was at the forefront of Eomer's mind as he coaxed his skittish horse forward. Was he leading his loyal men to their deaths?

"Shh," hissed one of the Rohirrim and the company came to a steady halt, ears and eyes straining for any sign of potential threats nearby. Silence seemed to almost pound through the blackness of the night. It put them even more on edge than before. "I thought I heard something," whispered the same man, his wide eyes searching as if hoping to see beyond the light of the torches.

Eomer's eyes also darted all around. So great had the tension grown now that he almost wished that something would happen just to break it. He could neither see nor hear anything out of place though so he softly ordered his men, "Let's move on."

Still looking about nervously, Eomer nudged his horse onwards, prompting the others into action as well. Now they continued even more slowly than before. They were nervous.

"Wait!" Tarsem's barked out command sliced so effectively through the thick silence that every single man jumped at the sound and the horses whinnied, shaking their heads, for they too could feel the focused intent of their riders and reacted accordingly. "There! I saw something."

All followed the Ranger's pointing finger, desperately searching.

They saw it almost too late. A shape, shadowed and shrouded in dark cloth, burst forth into the light and hands dragged one of the Rohirrim from his saddle before any of the others could react to the surprise attack.

Swords were drawn but they never had a chance to engage.

"Jecha! Stop!"

Everything stopped then for the voice was familiar and Eomer leapt from his mount to confront the speaker head on.

Legolas, however, shoved past the commander to drag the attacker, Jecha, from the Rohan man he was currently pinning to the ground, knife poised at the jugular for the kill. "Get off him!" Legolas ordered the stranger, sounding to Eomer to be rather exasperated, as if he was fed up with this attacker for some reason other than his murderous intent.

"Lower your weapons." Eomer's order was instantly obeyed by his own men, although the Rohirrim still looked startled, uncertain about what exactly was happening. All they knew was that they had been attacked and that one of their own – the Elf Legolas – was amongst the attackers. Or was perhaps their rescuer, they were uncertain about that particular detail. Unfortunately, they had no choice but to obey their own commander and they each sheathed their swords as ordered. "Aragorn." Assured that, in spite of the new unknown people joining the future king, there was no danger imminent, the commander followed the example of his men and sheathed his sword. "We were not expecting you so soon."

"We made good time."

"And picked up some new friends along the way, I see," noted Eomer, looking pointedly in the direction of Legolas and the stranger who was being spoken to in firm but hushed tones by the Elf.

"Oh. Yes."

Behind him had gathered the other new followers in Jecha's group, waiting patiently for their king to introduce them.

"Aragorn, Eomer, we should get moving," interrupted Legolas before the younger man could speak, walking purposefully towards them.

"Good to see you, Legolas."

"Eomer."

"Glad to see that reunion wasn't at all tense," Kalub noted dryly, shoving past Gimli and Gloin who were blocking his path and who had taken to staring dumbly up at the massive beasts the Rohirrim rode.

"Thank you, Kalub," ground out the commander of the Rohirrim.

All the tracker did was shoot Eomer a thin smile of knowing then go to greet his fellow Ranger, Tarsem, who had dismounted his horse to help Kalub with his bag. They met with a restrained but cordial handshake. A welcome of companions in battle rather than friends. Even so, Kalub found himself pleased to be back amongst old travelling companions and allies rather than being burdened with merely Legolas and Aragorn and the none-too-friendly new people they had picked up along the way. They were all too different to what he was used to for his liking; even the other Humans he found impossible to get along with. At least among the Rangers Kalub was respected, he knew where he stood amongst their ranks and he was not an outsider.

A loud cry, obviously from some brave, not to mention lucky, nocturnal creature, startled all the gathered company.

"Time to go," Eomer decided, finally breaking the tension that had again built up between him and Legolas after only moments reunited. "I trust that you are willing to walk back to camp. We have no horses to spare."

One of the Dwarves scoffed, shifting on his sturdy feet as a physical outlet for his discomfort at the notion of getting atop one of the stinking, skittish, dangerous beasts that these Men seemed to take pride in riding. Beasts of burden had never been beloved by the folk from the mountains. What use could such creatures have when Dwarves' legs were built so sturdy?

"As if we would ride atop one of those things," snorted Gloin stubbornly, dark eyes glinting in anger at the very notion that he should need the aid of any beast of burden.

Eomer stared in wonder at the thickly bearded, short creature stood abstinently before him and his shorter companion. Never in his life had he seen such an unusual being. Rather amazingly, it was Legolas whom Eomer looked to for reason and explanation.

"I will explain everything later," the Elf promised. He understood how startled Eomer must have been. No doubt, the Men of Rohan had never even heard of the Dwarven race. Indeed, the people of the caves were all but extinct in the world now and due to the ferocity of Sauron's extermination of the hard-working beings, they had probably never seen or heard of anything like them. Books and writings that may have explained of the other races of Middle Earth and their histories were probably more useful as fire kindling these days than they were learning. And Legolas could not blame them for that. He had little doubt that had he been presented with the choice even Lord Elrond of Rivendell, renowned lore-master and scholar that he was, would have done the same thing in the end. Dire need changed all outlooks, even that of the scholarly and the wise.

The return to the Men's camp went surprisingly swiftly and mercifully without incident. All were eager to get back, even if only for the false comfort of the firelight.

"Look what we found," announced Eomer with a grin when, not long before the break of dawn, they met Janor and the readied soldiers on the edge of the campsite.

"Legolas!" Janor cried with open excitement and no small amount of relief upon seeing the travellers returned. "Aragorn! You're back!"

"Yes." Legolas managed a fleeting smile as he found himself brought into a crushing embrace by the enthusiastic Ranger. "We have returned."

"Nice to see you again, Aragorn," the Ranger smiled at the young man once he had released a rather uncomfortable Legolas from the tight embrace. "And Kalub." He briefly embraced the tracker then asked, "How was your mission? Successful?"

Legolas looked from Janor to Aragorn then Jecha and back again. "In a manner."

"What does that mean?" asked Eomer, having dismounted and left his horse in the care of one of his men.

"Well, we…uh, we retrieved the Seeing Stone," Aragorn started with a plus.

"But?"

"We lost Grima."

"What?! That snake got away from you?" Anger reddened the man's face and he stubbornly remained standing as the others sat down around one of the fires, relieved to finally be off their aching feet after travelling so far. "How?"

"We had other…concerns at the time," Aragorn eluded cryptically, still deciding on how best to phrase what had actually occurred on their journey. It was quite a tale to accept, even for the most open-minded person, which they all had to agree Eomer was not.

"Other concerns?"

**OIOI**

"Hold on just one moment," Eomer pleaded, hand raised to halt any further words of this supposed 'explanation' coming from the future king of Gondor and Elven prince who had proceeded to tell the tale of their eventual journey. "You recruited a _what_?"

"An army of the Dead."

"I see. And they pledged to fight alongside us, did they?"

There was a definite edge of mockery in the man's voice but Aragorn considered it to be entirely justified given what the commander was being asked to believe. After casting a quick glance in Legolas' direction, taking note of how fed up the Elf looked by now, Aragorn answered, "That is correct."

"Right. And this man you…negotiated with…"

"The King of the Dead."

"Right, King of the Dead, he will come to you when summoned, vanquish the scourge of Mordor, after which you, wielder of the Sword of Kings, will release said Army of the Dead from the curse imposed upon them by your ancestor Isildur? Am I missing anything out?"

"No, that's about it."

Pursing his lips together as if he had just discovered himself to be the victim of some ill-conceived practical joke, the man of Rohan asked with all seriousness, "Have you been eating poisonous berries?"

"What? No!"

"So, this is some form of latent madness then?" determined Eomer flatly before sighing and running his fingers through tangled blonde hair. "That's just perfect."

"Let's get one thing straight," put in Legolas sternly, "no one has lost their mind here. What Aragorn says is the truth. The army was persuaded to join with us and to fight for Gondor – For Aragorn."

For a long while, Eomer stared at the ground at his feet, trying to make sense of everything he had just been told. As of yet, he had not entirely ruled out the possibility that on their journey to recover Grima and their stolen artefact, they had looked into the Seeing Stone and had consequently been driven quite insane by its power like so many before them. Surely that was the only reasonable explanation for their impossible account of what had transpired. More realistic certainly than treating with an army of ghosts.

And yet, Aragorn had always seemed so sensible, so grounded. Of the Elf, it was no less than he'd expected. He'd always imagined it to only be a matter of time before the Elf snapped completely. But not Aragorn. Aragorn would not lose his wits so easily.

"An army of ghosts," he finally said, his voice slightly breathless as he still tried to make sense of the concept.

"Yes."

"And none of you have gone insane in your absence?" Eomer asked just to make certain.

"Quite sure we have not," Aragorn confirmed obligingly.

"Well, that is something." He sighed, raising his head. Dawn was creeping towards them and he knew that soon the hushed camp would be bustling with activity. There was still much to learn from the future king and much to tell of his own misfortunes. "I assume that these new…friends of yours are also our allies?"

Aragorn cast his gaze over the newcomers and then confirmed, "That's right. They were the ones who found Grima and told us of the Dead Men under the Mountain. I hope that we can all work together."

"I wish for that too."

Eomer took a moment to assess Jecha. The introductions had been brief earlier and Eomer had not had much of a chance to decide what to make of him. Certainly, he was strange. Just his dress screamed 'different' to the scruffy Rohirrim and Rangers he normally travelled with. He was proud, that much was obvious from the nearly perfect state of his clothing and the way he held himself straight and readied for anything. And yet he was no mere wallflower. Strength and intelligence fairly radiated from the man, along with a deep sense of danger. There was little doubt that the lithe man was a strong warrior at heart. Beneath the veneer, polished and smooth, he seemed toned and physically capable. In the leather sheath strapped to a shining, highly polished black belt, rested an overly elaborate curved sword. A weapon that Eomer guessed had seen action many times in the past. The man's age was impossible to determine. Dark eyes held a look both of wisdom and youth – much like Legolas' did, the man mused. But there was no way to tell unless the man's mask was removed.

Those who travelled with him clearly looked to him for reassurance and leadership. He was trusted.

His companion, similarly dressed, although in garb ever so slightly finer as though he had seen less action in his years, had yet to speak a single word. No one seemed inclined to even look at him let alone talk to him. Aragorn had made no introduction, almost as if he wished to ignore the man completely or maybe didn't know his name. He kept his distance from the others but watched every move being made with narrow dark eyes, twinkling with the same intelligence and wisdom that shone in Jecha's eyes. Perhaps they were kin. Eomer took an immediate dislike to him and he noted that even Legolas and Aragorn showed no interest in communicating with him. Only his fellow Easterling paid him any attention but spoke to him with hushed almost deferent tones. Given that he appeared slightly older than Jecha, Eomer wondered if perhaps they were father and son.

"So, an undefeatable army. That is a great coup indeed," Eomer finally conceded with a nod of approval. "If it is true."

"Yes," agreed Legolas.

"Sauron would stand little chance…"

"No," Aragorn shook his head as he warmed his hands over the fire. "They agreed to fight for the freedom of Gondor and her people, not to liberate Mordor."

"Hang on, you're saying that you made a pact with the perfect army and didn't think to include bringing down the Dark Lord in the deal?"

Aragorn looked to Legolas to drink in the brief flash of encouragement that was offered then protested, "We were not exactly in the position to ask for much. To Gondor they are bound and only Gondor will they serve. We could ask no more of them."

Feeling irritation beginning to form in the pit of his stomach, Eomer counted to ten in his head to reign in his temper. What was done was done. It could not be changed and at least the now certain taking of Gondor was something.

"All right," he finally sighed.

"It is something, Eomer. It is vastly more than we had before."

The man was surprised for this sounded almost like a plea; not a normal tone for the Elf to take, certainly in his presence. His eyes grazed over the Elf. He looked the same, although perhaps more wary than he had in the past. Perhaps it was simply that Legolas did not entirely trust the new Men amongst them. Or perhaps the Elf did not like the fact that Aragorn actually seemed to like and have faith in their newest members rather than just in him. Eomer shrugged it off for the time being. He didn't intend to spend his valuable time worrying over the Elf.

Now that light was beginning to drench the camp, Legolas was able to see the changes in the Men he had left behind weeks earlier and he sat up straight in surprise.

"Where is everyone?"

Fear entered Eomer's eyes than, and although he had expected this question and although he opened his mouth to reply no response came forth.

"Eomer, what happened?"

Sighing, the man finally managed, "There was…We were attacked."

"By who?"

"Orcs. Lots of Orcs."

"Was anyone hurt?" The concern was plain on Aragorn's face; he already knew what the answer would be.

"The attack was vicious. We lost…many."

"How many?"

"Sixty-five dead in total."

"Sixty-five!" Legolas, Aragorn and Kalub all exclaimed in unison.

"A further fifteen have been poisoned, fatally. Forty-seven have died of the Orc's poison already, and Valon says there is no cure."

"Poison?"

"So many killed at long range, by arrows tipped with poison. We barely stood a chance."

Legolas shook his head. During his time attempting to cleanse the forests of Mirkwood, Legolas had seen many good, strong warriors and plenty of defenceless innocents cut down by the cruel poisons devised by the Orcs. The effects may not have been instantaneous but they were nonetheless devastating. A truly horrible way to die as he recalled.

Eomer broke the sombre silence that had descended. "I suppose you will want to rest now. We normally travel during the day but we can make an exception for your return I suppose."

"I for one am exhausted," stated Kalub, stretching his arms above high above his head. Already the man had kicked off his shoes and shed his thick jacket.

"We will rest for a while, set our plans in motion later," decided the Elf amongst them.

"Good plan." Aragorn too was worn out. On the road, they had not paused much for rest, so it was welcome now that they were back amongst people they knew and trusted.

"All right," Eomer said, "Janor, show our new…friends where they can rest for the day and give them anything they require."

"Of course. This way."

Much to Eomer's surprise, the heads of all the newcomers turned towards Aragorn, seeking permission to leave it seemed. Wide eyes, filled with amazement, followed their line of sight to find that the boy was equally uncertain, shifting uncomfortably where he sat in the light of their attentions.

"Janor will take care of you all," Legolas told them.

Aragorn confirmed with a nod. Immediately, Jecha got to his feet and the others followed his lead, going after the Ranger. The other Easterling went last, getting lithely to his feet and following the others slowly. He looked over his shoulder only once to glance back at Eomer with calculating eyes.

"I am going to bed too," said Kalub, hauling himself to his feet.

"Wait a moment," Eomer stopped him although he also got up, prompting the others to stand as well. "I didn't want to say anything in front of the strangers." Dread filled Legolas, Aragorn and Kalub at the grim tone of the commander's voice. "In the battle with the Orcs…I'm sorry to tell you that Carion was killed."

"What?!" they exclaimed as one in horror.

"He was injured by the first wave of attack. He never stood a chance. He died in Janor's arms."

Grief shadowed Aragorn's face, which had drained of all healthy colour, and he subconsciously gripped Legolas' shoulder as if for support. Kalub dipped his head, breathing deeply, hurt by the loss of his friend and companion. That he had not been there to see him before he had fallen, not had a chance to say goodbye, hit him hard.

Suddenly though, the tracker raised his head and asked in alarm, "How is Veron?"

"He's been better."

"I should go speak with him."

Eomer barely had a chance to nod before Kalub had pushed past him in his haste to find the bereft twin brother of his fallen comrade. When Legolas and Aragorn went to join him to pass on their condolences, Eomer snagged the Elf's arm and held him back, effectively stopping his ward at the same time.

"Legolas, Ciaran was hurt as well."

Panic struck Legolas' heart and the pain he felt crash over him came as somewhat of a shock. For Aragorn it would have been perfectly understandable but for Ciaran? What on earth was happening to him? Gone were the days when he had closed himself off from feeling anything for anyone, it seemed. In truth, he couldn't decide whether this was a good thing or not. Judging by the way the feeling made his heart beat erratically and the pain it caused him, he decided that it was bad. And he had no one to blame but himself. It had been his choice to take on Aragorn as a ward. That had been when it had changed him.

"How bad is it?" Aragorn asked in place of his guardian.

"Valon says that he will recover in time but right now he is not well at all."

Legolas sighed, eyes falling closed. "Don't tell me…"

"Poison. From an Orc arrow," confirmed the Rohan commander. "The wound, mercifully, is not life-threatening but he has to take time to recover." Eomer fell silent as Legolas digested this information, noting the way the Elf raked his fingers through his hair in despair. When Legolas raised his head again, the man continued, "He has been asking after you a lot during his convalescence. If you want to see him…"

"Yes, of course," Legolas answered although his voice remained distracted.

"By the second fire. Valon is with him and the others."

"Thank you." Legolas shook his head to one side and then to the other to clear his mind somewhat and indeed he seemed to be considerably more in control of himself when he turned to his ward and spoke again. "Aragorn, go get cleaned up and get some rest."

Usually, Aragorn would have argued that he too wanted to see Ciaran but he recognised the look in his guardian's eyes; he would brook no refusal. So, he nodded and slowly moved away, leaving Eomer to lead Legolas to where Ciaran was laid in recovery.

Whilst Legolas crouched down at the young man's side, Eomer went in search of the physician to provide them with an update as to his condition.

"Ciaran?" Legolas said softly, laying his hand in a soothing motion against the boy's forehead, which was hot with fever.

"His condition is stable."

The Elf looked up at the sound of Valon's voice. "He is improved?"

"Much improved since he was first brought to me. The first couple of days were touch and go for a while but mercifully the dose he received was low enough not to be fatal. Given the alternative, he was extremely lucky. Had it been anything greater than a graze, he would have died days ago." Valon looked around and Legolas eyes followed his gaze to drift over the others lying on the ground, many of them looking considerably worse off than Ciaran. "Many others do not share his good fortune."

"The poison is bad?"

"Yes. Particularly vicious."

"And yet he got off relatively lightly."

"As I said his wound is but a graze and we managed to cleanse it shortly after it was sustained thus it was not fully absorbed into his blood."

"Thank the Valar."

Legolas startled as the words left his lips, for it had been decades since he had considered anything to be a blessing from the Creators. In these dark times, there seemed to be very little to thank them for. And yet the familiar prayer slipped from him automatically.

By now, the Elf's eyes were fixed firmly upon Ciaran again. Knowing that his presence was no longer required, Valon stepped away with the stealth that any Elf would have admired.

How much this young man reminded Legolas of Aragorn in his youth. Innocent in spite of all the horrors he'd witnessed, all the terrible suffering he'd been made to endure. And yet, also so terribly burdened.

"Ciaran?" the Elf asked again and was this time rewarded with a mumble of recognition. "Can you hear me?"

"Father?" breathed the boy, turning his head towards the voice that had broken through the veil of mist that clouded his fevered mind.

"No, child. It is Legolas."

"Legolas?" Ciaran frowned then forced one eye open to look at the Elf. Indeed, it was confirmed. "You're back?"

"For a couple of hours now."

"There was an attack."

"Yes," Legolas nodded, taking Ciaran's delicate hand in his own. "Everything is fine now though."

"Orcs."

"I know."

"And…_them_."

"Them?" Legolas asked in confusion, for the boy became even more agitated when he spoke of this mysterious 'them'. "Who are they?"

"You know. The…The Shadows."

Legolas felt his blood run cold at the mention of this for there was no doubting to whom the boy was referring. Shadows. The Wraiths. No warning of their presence close by pricked at Legolas' senses; it had not done since Kinnale's death in the caves months ago.

Shaking off the shadow that had momentarily descended over him, Legolas forced a smile and reassured, "You are safe here."

"No. They are here. Amongst us." Wild eyes darted around, frightened and suspicious.

Legolas had little doubt that if the Wraiths of Mordor were in fact moving amongst the gathered rebels then the air would be positively charged with their dark energy, by-product of their black magic. He felt no such tension. The Nine were not here and were nowhere close by either. Nor had they been close recently.

"They are not here. I promise. Do you trust me, Ciaran?"

Although he swallowed thickly, a sign of his fear, Ciaran nevertheless nodded, settling back a little with Legolas' reassurance. "Yes. I do."

"Then trust that I will keep you safe. I will not let them touch you. Not ever."

"All right," Ciaran said; already his fevered eyes were beginning to grow heavy again as sleep crept up on him.

"Get some rest. Valon says that you will be better soon."

A small smile graced Ciaran's pale lips then. "I'm glad you're back."

Legolas simply nodded in return and sat quietly as he watched the boy doze off. He doubted very much that given his delirious state Ciaran would remember much, if any of this when he next woke. His distress, too, would no doubt vanish as he gained his strength back and rid his body of the Orcs' poison. Most likely, his imaginings of the Wraiths were merely remnants of nightmares. Understandable, for they probably haunted his memory more persistently than any other horror he had witnessed being, as they were, responsible for the death of his beloved father.

Even so, the Darkness weighed heavily upon Legolas' mind as he watched Ciaran sleep. Would that he could be so easily convinced of safety.

**To Be Continued…**


	55. Fractures

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews. Please keep them coming. I always enjoy reading them so much. Hope you enjoy the next chapter.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 55 – Fractures**

Once he was certain that Ciaran was safely asleep again, Legolas disentangled his hand from the boy's and gently laid the limp hand back on his slowly rising and falling chest. Satisfied that Ciaran was resting peacefully for now and not likely to wake any time soon, Legolas got up stiffly and stepped away as quietly as he could manage so as not to disturb the boy.

"He'll sleep well for now," Valon said when he caught up with Legolas once the Elf had finished his silent vigil.

"Good."

"Tea?" The healer held out a battered metal cup to Legolas, who took it gratefully, wrapping his hands around the warm container. "And how have you been?"

"I am still standing, am I not? And entirely unaided."

"A miracle indeed. Would you consent to a quick examination?"

"Pleasant as that sounds, maybe later," smiled Legolas grimly before taking a sip of the sweet herbal tea. "Don't you have better things to do with your time?"

"I figured you would say that."

Again, Legolas flashed the well-meaning healer a smile. "How well you have come to know me."

"Yes, a healer always recalls his most troubling patients the most vividly."

Legolas had already moved away, ignoring this last comment, obviously meant in jest. He found Aragorn already asleep and he sat down nearby, finishing his tea in peace. Questions from the rest of the company about the return of Aragorn and his guardian as well as the arrival of the new-comers were put to Eomer rather than the Elf upon their coming back to the camp and the man seemed happy enough to answer them. For this he was grateful. Really, he did not want to answer a lot of complex questions right then. Enough sneering at the implausible tale of the allegiance they had forged with the King of the Dead Men of Dunharrow had occurred already; he did not think he could handle any more.

"Your friend is well?"

Jecha's voice startled Legolas and he looked up to see the Easterling staring down at him. He had not heard the man's approach, which concerned him somewhat. He was becoming lax, complacent within the company of the other Men.

Shaking off his annoyance at himself, Legolas answered, "Uh, no. But he will be in time."

"I am glad."

"Why? You do not know him."

"He is a friend to the king," Jecha replied in a tone that implied that it should be self-evident, showing no sign that he was offended by Legolas' own blunt statement, "therefore I care."

"Ridiculous logic."

Deep brown eyes turned on Legolas, confusion shining in them. "I do not understand. You follow the king also." Jecha lowered himself without invitation down onto the ground beside the Elf.

"Of course."

"In fact, you raised him, brought him up to lead his people to their freedom. You have invested much in his survival and education."

"Yes, I suppose I have," said Legolas softly before tipping his cup up to finish the dregs of his tea.

"And yet you now object to his subjects following him with similar loyalty?"

"I did not say that."

Jecha let the subject drop, indicating so with a slight nod, although he did not seem entirely satisfied with the outcome of the blunt conversation. But then he asked, "I have noticed in the short time that I have been here that these Men look to you for guidance rather than to the king. Why is that?"

Sensing that some kind of veiled insult was hidden in amongst that question, Legolas pursed his lips together to keep from responding unkindly. Drawing on patience he didn't know he possessed, Legolas shook his head and looked down at the dry ground.

"I do not know."

"No?"

Turning to the Easterling, Legolas reiterated with a tight, "No."

"It is not because you do not believe in him, in his skill to lead?"

Offended by the accusation, Legolas almost growled out his response. "How dare you! You know nothing about Aragorn or me."

"My apologies."

"Keep your opinions to yourself."

Ending the conversation, Legolas shot up from his spot by the dying fire and strode away before he said something he would regret. All tiredness had been swept away along with the conversation so Legolas made his way through the camp to the outskirts where he had always felt most at ease. He had always been a solitary creature, even in Mirkwood he had boasted few close friends and preferred to be out training or patrolling his beloved forest home to attending court or be partying in his father's lively halls with his peers.

For a while he paced, trying to work off his anger and excess energy.

Surely Jecha had been wrong in his accusations. He had not held Aragorn back, had he? Ever since he had taken Aragorn under his wing, he had always tried to do his best by him, just as he had promised Arathorn that he would. It had never been easy. He had never looked after a child. Never had he even had to take care of an Elfling let alone a young Human who presented him with such problems an Elf could never have foreseen.

He remembered Aragorn's first illness. He had been curled up miserably in the corner of a cave they had sought shelter in after a particularly savage winter, coughing and gasping for breath. And he had been entirely useless. He could not even give a name to this illness. They had no supplies and that month he had barely been able to scrounge together enough food to keep them alive. There had been nothing he could do to ease Aragorn's suffering.

In moments like those, he had felt like a failure on every level. But Aragorn had never blamed him. In fact, the boy had always reassured him. Even as a child when he still grieved for his fallen father, he seemed to understand that Legolas was clueless regarding the ailments of Mankind. He'd reassured Legolas that it would pass in time and with chance to rest. But Legolas had remained nervous, especially considering how Arathorn had perished; with the same symptoms that Aragorn on occasion displayed.

Of course, Legolas would never tell Aragorn of his fears. He would merely stiffly offer comfort, assuring the man that the illness would pass and soon he would be feeling well again.

And he had tried to teach him well. After they had left the Old Forest Road, Legolas had hoped to set the young man on his path. He had taught him as much as he could, adapting his Elven training to suit the Man. Of course, Aragorn did not possess the strength and speed of the Elves and yet he had been a diligent student when he deigned to put the effort in.

However, the now very real possibility brought forth by Jecha that Legolas had in some way failed his young charge concerned Legolas greatly. After all, it had always been his greatest fear: that he would fail his ward, that Aragorn would not be prepared.

It was not only his pride at stake. There was so much more.

"Legolas!"

The Elf looked up at the sharp crack of his name through the silence. Blinking, the Elf found Eomer standing a few feet away from him.

"Eomer?" How long had he been standing there? The day had progressed, so probably hours. Hours lost in his own winding, self-pitying thoughts. "What?"

"Stop obsessing and get over here."

Straightening out his shirt, Legolas walked over to where Eomer stood waiting for him. "I was not obsessing," the Elf mumbled darkly as he joined the commander.

"Of course not."

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes proved difficult so Legolas distracted himself by saying, "What do you want?"

"For you to quit obsessing."

"Once more, I was not…"

"Whatever you say. I figured you would want to be a part of this discussion," Eomer told the Elf as he led him near to one of the fires where Janor, Jecha and the other Easterling, who Legolas had learned from Jecha was called Sonal, had gathered. "It is decision time." Eomer took a seat on the ground so that the group was organised in a rough circle and Legolas joined them rather more reluctantly. As far as he was concerned, the decisions had already been made and he saw no cause to discuss them further or change them simply for the sake of it.

"Gondor still remains a viable option," continued the Rohan commander, addressing the rest of the gathered group.

"Gondor remains the only option," corrected Legolas decisively.

Eomer looked around at the gathered Men and, bolstered by the fact that there had been no immediate outcry regarding either option, went on, "We have no clue what awaits us in the ancient city."

"The throne awaits its rightful king," Legolas said automatically.

Continuing on in spite of the interruption, Eomer persisted, "Or if there is even a Gondor left. If our lands of Rohan were besieged then surely Gondor will be just as bad, if not worse considering its proximity to the Black Lands."

"Where then do you suggest we go instead?" Janor asked sceptically. Personally, given his past affiliations with Legolas and Aragorn, the Ranger tended to lean more towards the Elf's plans than the Rohan man's.

"Bree."

Janor's eyes widened in surprise at the name of his home being spoken. Of all the places, that had been the one he had expected the least to hear. Warmth filled his heart at the prospect of returning home, of seeing his family once more, of being on familiar soil.

"There is nothing for us in Bree." Legolas' cold voice put an immediate halt to any feeling of home that might have warmed the Ranger.

"You do not know that for sure," Eomer told the Elf somewhat testily. "It might be advantageous for us to go somewhere quiet to regroup."

"Yes, I do know that it would be a waste of our time, which is precious."

"If we gathered more…"

"We have all the help we are going to get. Only those unfit to fight remained behind in Bree when we departed from there. There is nothing there that can help us so it would be pointless to travel out of our way."

"And in Gondor?"

"If we can retake Gondor…"

"_If_. If we can retake Gondor. It's a big, uncertain _if_. After we put Aragorn on the throne, then what, Legolas? Do you think it will be any easier to lay siege to Mordor after our resources are depleted in a futile battle for Gondor? Better to gather all forces to us in a place that the Dark Lord is not expecting us to be – like Bree or Rohan – and march on the Black Lands now whilst we still hold the element of surprise. If we take Gondor, the Dark Lord will see us coming and we wouldn't stand a chance against his great forces."

Legolas ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "It won't matter if…He already knows! Don't you people get that? Sauron already knows we're coming! That's why he sent the Orcs and the Uruk-hai and the Nazgul!" Annoyed eyes glanced around all the gathered, shocked faces.

"Then what, Legolas? Tell us. Enlighten us," Eomer challenged mockingly.

"You know what."

"Gondor. That's it? No back-up plan? Don't you think that is a tad arrogant?"

In truth, this was what he had promised Arathorn – take Aragorn to his rightful place in Gondor, make him into the king he was born to be. He had been aiming for Gondor pretty much right from the start and he had never even considered any possible alternatives and he could not now dispel the ideal that remained stuck in his mind.

"No, I have no back-up," he was forced to admit.

A look of righteous justification crossed Eomer's features. How he loved to get one over on the Elf. Only the tiniest hint of guilt ran through him when he realised how he had hurt the prince.

"This is the true course," Legolas said with renewed certainty that seemed ever so slightly forced to those who listened to him. "We must do what is best for the King."

Eomer sighed again. "And what about what is best for the rest of us? Or do we not matter at all?"

"Of course you all matter."

"Ah, yes, but you only really care about yourself and your king, don't you?" the Rohan man sneered without even really thinking about what he was saying. "You've already proven that and my men were the ones who paid the ultimate price."

Legolas had little doubt that Eomer was referring to the regretful events of Helm's Deep where so many men had lost their lives, an event that Eomer and probably many more still considered Legolas to be responsible for. That he would use it in an argument now was low. And Eomer knew that it was low.

Dropping his gaze, the Elf nodded. Rather than arguing any further though, Legolas then quietly got to his feet and simply walked slowly away from them all, not speaking another word.

Naturally surprised, Eomer opened his mouth to speak but he found that he didn't know what to say. He had not expected Legolas to simply retreat. It had never happened before. The Elf had always fought his corner.

"Well," Janor started after a while of tense silence, "that went well."

Although he did feel somewhat guilty for what he had said to Legolas, Eomer shrugged off the unwelcome feeling and said, "If he's not going to fight his corner…"

"Then_ I_ will," interrupted Aragorn.

Eomer looked up. He had not heard the boy's approach and had no clue how much he had heard although it seemed he'd heard plenty. "Aragorn, I…"

"We are going to Gondor," the young man stated, suddenly sounding very much like the king it was proclaimed he would be. "Either you are with us or against us. If you are to follow us then you will do so without further complaint, Commander."

Jecha got, with no hesitation, to his feet and announced, "We are with the King of Gondor." His companion also rose gracefully to his feet but simply nodded his agreement rather than speaking it.

The Rangers had been allies to the king pretty much from the moment they had accidentally stumbled across one another on Weathertop and Janor had no intention of going back on the promises Kinnale had made to the king and his guardian. So he too stood up and pledged allegiance to Aragorn.

"Eomer?" prompted Aragorn when the Rohan man remained unresponsive, sitting on the ground with an almost stubborn look on his features.

Mulling over his answer, the Commander found weighing up the options difficult. On the one hand, he wanted to trust Aragorn but he also feared going into Gondor, he feared what awaited him and his people there. He might have demanded more time but the pressure of Aragorn and Jecha both staring down at him expectantly proved too much and he finally nodded his assent.

"Very well," Eomer said, getting to his feet, setting his jaw in irritation, "It seems I have no choice in the matter."

"Your choice is simple. I suggest that you be certain of it."

Surprisingly it was Jecha who gave the warning and that riled Eomer a bit. The strange man barely knew him; what right did he have to judge him and manipulate him?

So, pulling himself up to his full impressive height in the hope of appearing even to match the intimidating posture of the Easterling, Eomer determinedly said, "I am certain. The…king will have the assistance of the Rohirrim." Cold green eyes turned accusingly on Aragorn as if he had somehow been to blame for the whole thing. "No matter what the outcome." With that, he stalked away, leaving the others to watch him go. At least that gave him some small amount of power, having the last word.

After a moment, Aragorn turned to the Easterlings, unlikely allies though he considered them to be, and sighed, "Thank you for your support."

Both Men nodded once, with calmness that Aragorn recognised as similar to that displayed by his mentor and that he had always considered to be a most enviable trait that he had never been able to master. Certainly, Legolas had never been able to teach it and he wondered fleetingly whether Jecha would consent to attempting that feat. He would not ask the other. The taciturn man still scared him somewhat. Even now after he had wordlessly pledged his allegiance, Aragorn flinched away from dark brown eyes staring unblinkingly at him.

"We support our king," Jecha said, repeating his favourite sentiment. He probably didn't realise that it always just made Aragorn feel uncomfortable.

"Well, thank you."

Already, Aragorn's gaze had drifted, searching for Legolas. It was fair to say that he had been disappointed when his trusted guardian had walked away from the fight. Seldom had he seen Legolas look quite so defeated. It was of great concern.

Before he could excuse himself though, Jecha stepped aside; a hint that he should go after Legolas. Smiling appreciatively, Aragorn did just that.

The day was cold, overcast and as Aragorn went in search of his guardian the rain started to fall, patchy at first then more miserably consistent. A steady rainfall brought a further damp chill to the air and Aragorn shivered and pulled his jacket more tightly around himself.

"It is not like you to walk away from a fight, especially with Eomer," Aragorn noted light-heartedly when he finally approached his guardian. Legolas was stood staring out over the misty plains and only acknowledged his ward with a slight tilt of his head. Joining Legolas, feeling somewhat awkward as he stood beside him, the young man asked, "What is wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong."

"No?"

"No."

"All right then."

Legolas glanced his way then for he knew that the insatiable curiosity of the boy would not be sated with such a vague answer. How well he had come to know his ward. It was a far cry from when he had no idea what to do with the chatty young boy he'd been entrusted with.

"Everything is fine, Aragorn. I simply tire of arguing with that man."

"Again, that doesn't sound like you." Frowning, Aragorn fixed his eyes upon the ground, busying his hands tugging at his frayed jacket sleeve. What he had to say was hard to admit, even harder to say out loud, partially because he feared Legolas would take offence. "Things have not been the same recently, have they?"

"How do you mean?"

"You…Do you wish you were…not here anymore?"

Finally looking up to his ward in full, Legolas asked, "What has prompted this question?"

"Just…" Aragorn shrugged uncertainly. "I don't know. It's just a feeling."

Avoidance had always been Legolas' failsafe. Avoiding thinking too hard on his home, on his lost family and friends had been the only thing that had kept him sane since the beginning of the War. Now, as Aragorn spoke the plain-to-see truth, Legolas realised that he did miss his life of simplicity when all he had to concern himself with was how to gather enough nutritious food from the devastated earth to survive. He had been pushing away that ashamedly embarrassing selfishness for the past few years though. For Aragorn he pushed away that dark part of himself. He owed it to the boy he'd been entrusted with to be a better person. And yet, he knew it would always be a part of his nature. He wanted to be alone, unburdened.

"Aragorn," Legolas sighed, first raking his fingers through his hair in despair and then abruptly turning on his ward and dragging him into a tight embrace. He held Aragorn fiercely to his chest, squeezing the unsuspecting boy as tightly as he dared. "I am sorry."

Truthfully, Aragorn was unsure whether to laugh or cry at the strangeness of this encounter. Perhaps, though, he had been expecting this for some time.

Legolas had never struck him as being particularly happy with their arrangement but the Elf had never openly said anything to him. Just lately though, as Aragorn had been relying on him less and less as they met more of Humankind, the Elf had been more distant, more unsettled than ever.

Convinced he may have been that this was no fault of his, Aragorn finally raised his own arms, and hugged his most trusted guardian back, and said in a choked voice, "I understand. It's all right." It did not sound entirely convincing, although Legolas held him tighter still. Trying to keep himself steady, Aragorn continued, "I would understand if you wanted to leave me now."

Even as he said it, the emotion conjured by the words slammed into the young man, stealing his breath from his body and his hands fisted around the back of Legolas' jacket at the pain this statement caused him. What would he do without his guide and guardian? It was almost unthinkable.

To Aragorn's immense surprise though, Legolas laughed at this suggestion.

"After all we have been through, the secrets we share, you think I would now just abandon you to your fate?"

In his guardian's embrace, Aragorn shrugged. "It might be the sensible thing."

"Where would I go?"

"I don't know. Back to the Old Forest Road maybe. Or you could return home."

Legolas let his eyes fall closed as the thought of home brought with it simultaneous blast of warmth and pain. Then he smiled again.

Pulling back and holding Aragorn firm at arm's length, the Elf smiled then raised his hand to gently brush a lock of long hair from where it had fallen over Aragorn's cheek only to become plastered to pale skin by tears.

"Nothing remains for me in the homes of the Elves." He tilted his head thoughtfully to one side, still looking into the watery grey depths of his ward's eyes. "My future lies with you. Maybe one day I will return to Rivendell to see how its lord and warden fare. But if I do it will be with the King Renewed."

Although Aragorn nodded in relief at this declaration, he asked, "And what of Eomer?"

"What of Eomer?"

"Will you at least try to be reasonable with him?" Aragorn sighed.

"See? Not even crowned king yet and you are already mediating disputes. There is hope for you yet," Legolas chuckled as he dragged Aragorn back into a hug.

**OIOI**

"Well, you have cast the die, Jecha. I hope you know what you are doing."

Looking to his companion, Jecha nodded slightly. "I do too. But you know that it is right. If the boy is to succeed then he will need all the help he can get. We owe it to him to give him that much."

"And if it leads to our own deaths?"

Jecha shrugged at this suggestion. "Then so be it." He glanced up then and there was a smile shining in his eyes. "Don't tell me that you are suddenly afraid of death."

Proud shoulders straightened even further and Jecha saw taut muscles flex ever so slightly beneath the fine fabric of scarlet robes. It seemed he had offended his companion. "I do not fear death. You know this, Jecha."

"Of course, sir."

"I merely meant to imply that this is a great task we are undertaking and with a people who might not necessarily view our lives as worthy of protection."

Jecha sighed at this; he knew what his companion meant. "You speak of the Elf."

"We have been here mere hours and already Eomer's people have been speaking of the Prince Legolas with open hostility."

"There was an incident in Rohan, so I have learned. Legolas pretty much walked them into a trap; a show of strength to the Shadow."

"Commendable."

"In your eyes, perhaps. But the people do not seem pleased over the decision."

"When will people realise that in war sacrifices must be made."

Scoffing at this, Jecha pointed out, "Which is fine until the sacrifice looks likely to be you."

They paused in their conversation as a man from Rohan walked past them. It didn't seem right to be speaking of such things, even when the subject matter was disguised by their own language. Once the interruption had passed though, Jecha continued, "We have discussed this before. You told me to take the side of the king when we got rid of that snake Grima."

"Indeed. The thought of those slimy hands holding the Palantir turned my stomach. I would rather see the sphere in the hands of the king."

"Where you can keep an eye on it?"

"It is indeed a wonderful asset. The boy does not know yet," Sonal said cryptically, looking out over the quiet camp.

"Legolas does though. He's not letting that thing out of his sight again, not after Grima."

"No. But that suits us well, Jecha. At least in his care, the Palantir is unlikely to be abandoned. It appears he is the only one who recognises that."

"Perhaps then he would do well to speak of this to the king?" suggested Jecha.

"Unlikely."

"Why?"

"Because the Elf understands what the king does not yet."

"And what is that?"

"That sometimes one must embrace the Shadow in order to beat it."

Jecha followed Sonal's gaze over the camp. Things were quiet still but he could feel that there was a change coming. The air was singing with the promise of excitement. He both looked forward to it and dreaded it. Things were so unpredictable. That, he supposed, was both a blessing and a curse. As usual, patience would win through. Soon enough they would know what their course would be.

**To Be Continued…**


	56. From Beyond The Veil

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews. Enjoy the next chapter.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 56 – From Beyond The Veil**

"Ciaran."

Grey eyes blinked sluggishly a couple of times after initially opening on the pain of the outside world. Uncertain of what exactly had disturbed him, Ciaran sighed a breath of irritation at being woken and closed his eyes again, fervently hoping to get back to that place in the depths of dreams where no discomfort could penetrate.

"Ciaran."

There it was again. Not a summons. Merely a whisper on the breeze. Barely there. And yet strangely loud also in his mind. A curious thing, indeed.

Sitting up stiffly under his pile of blankets, Ciaran looked about himself in confusion. All those around him close enough to whisper in such a manner appeared to still be sleeping. He was surrounded by the Rangers. Friends. None of them would play such a trick on him, not so soon after he was recovered from the poison-inflicted ailments that had knocked him down for days. No. So far on the road toward Gondor, the Men's general mood could hardly be described as jovial. With so many losses grieving them and such a heavy feeling of rivalry in the air between the now three separate factions of Men brought together, jokes were highly unlikely and pranks virtually outlawed.

"Ciaran."

And yet that voice calling to him…It was so heart-wrenchingly familiar but at the same time hard to place.

"Ciaran."

Familiar. So very familiar. A voice from his past.

Surely it could not be.

"Ciaran."

The young man got up to his knees, ignoring the slight pang of pain that ran through his still healing would. His head turned left and right, searching for whatever beckoned him so cruelly, so temptingly through the silence of the night. Overall, the camp was quiet. Aragorn had been pushing them all hard this past week since they had broken camp in wake of the future king's return and all were worn out. Most were sound asleep, undisturbed by the soft sound that had woken Ciaran.

"Ciaran."

Now certain that it was no game being played upon him by mischievous comrades and increasingly anxious at this conclusion, the young man climbed up to his feet. A better vantage point provided no further clues though.

Just as he was beginning to think that he was perhaps hallucinating from the lingering effects of the potent Orc poison that had been streaming its way through his veins of late, meaning that the prudent thing to do would be to get up and seek out the advice of the healers, a strange light caught his eye. Emanating from the bag laid next to where Legolas was sleeping, it drew him inexplicably forwards.

Carefully, he stepped over or around the slumbering Men in order to reach the Elf. He paid little attention to those around him and yet he jostled not one of them.

"Ciaran."

He stopped short at the noise. The sound had been clearer, more defined that time. As he came to the conclusion that the voice and the light were in some way connected, Ciaran felt little sense of trepidation at approaching the dual curiosities. What, after all, was the worst that could happen?

The strange red light that pulsed inside Legolas' bag grew brighter even as he watched it and began to pulsate even more deeply, beating faster the closer Ciaran got to it. Tendrils of red mist wrapped around him, ensnaring him, ensuring his compliance in answering the call. Irrationally, he tried to shake them off, batting at the illuminated air around him as one would at the pesky flies that irritated the men at meal times but it had no effect on the incorporeal wisps so he quickly gave up that notion of escaping this supernatural happening.

"Ciaran. Come to me."

Once again, Ciaran stopped abruptly, heart pounding so hard in his chest that it hurt and almost drowned out his own thoughts. The voice and the man who spoke it was now unmistakable.

"Father?" A soft whisper into the eerily reddened night, tentative and yet so very hopeful.

"Come to me, my child."

Swallowing furiously against the thick lump that had formed in his throat, Ciaran found that he was torn. This was not natural. Rationally, he knew that his father was dead. The dead could not commune with the living no matter how much the living longed for it. And yet, in spite of this long-held knowledge, Ciaran felt a spark of excited expectation in his heart.

Could his father really communicate with him from beyond the veil? He had died brutally but it had been creatures of powerful and ancient magic that had ended his life. Was it possible that his ever-strong-willed father was using that magic now in turn to speak with his son from beyond the grave?

Doubt may have rested heavily upon his mind but it was not enough to deter him from investigating the possibility further. Such an opportunity, no matter how remote the possibilities were, could not be passed over and to do so would surely be foolish.

"Father?" Ciaran whispered into the thin air, feeling ever so slightly foolish in doing so. "Tell me how."

"Come to me."

"How?"

"Come."

Feeling frustration building up inside of him at the maddeningly unhelpful directions, the voice of his father instructed simply, "Follow."

"Follow what?"

As if in response to his question, the red light, still pulsing steadily, glowed momentarily brighter. A sign for him to follow the light. But surely his father would not be found inside of Legolas' travelling pack!

Ciaran very nearly laughed out loud at the sheer absurdity of that idea.

After taking a moment to think it through, Ciaran came to the conclusion that he had nothing to lose by following this strange delusion's instructions. If in fact, this was madness then so be it. He would simply check it out and then go and find Valon and confess his fall into insanity.

So, he moved closer, following the tendrils of strange red light that beckoned him ever nearer.

Worried that the Elf might be disturbed by his clumsy Human footsteps, Ciaran moved on careful tiptoe as he approached. For a change, Legolas was asleep this night, his eyes shut tight. It was not often, Ciaran knew, that Legolas succumbed to sleep unless he felt secure where he was spending his resting hours. Very often he would be seen patrolling the borders of the camps, searching for a danger that he apparently feared would pass the Human guards by. However, with guards taking care to patrol the perimeter, this camp was as safe as it could possibly be. Fate, perhaps. Or maybe the ghost of his father had something to do with the Elf's prolonged and deep slumber. Either way, he was grateful. He remembered Legolas' fury at the man Grima when he had stolen something from him. He had no desire to be on the receiving end of that wrath.

Odd though it was, Ciaran did not find that off-putting as he knew he should have. He wanted the source of that voice to be made evident no matter what the consequences. Although he had his suspicions. A tingle of fear rippled through him.

Keeping his eyes securely on the Elf's peaceful features, watching for any sign of him waking, Ciaran crouched down next to him and reached for the strap of the bag. The movement was slow and careful but Legolas stirred slightly in its wake. Freezing for a moment solved the problem. Legolas settled back into sleep with a barely audible sigh.

Realising that he had been holding his breath in anticipation of getting caught, Ciaran took a beat to breathe in then smoothly lifted the bag from its resting place.

Thankfully, Legolas did not wake.

Ciaran carried the bag back to where his blanket was laid out, where he had been sleeping peacefully mere moments before, and sat down cross-legged on the ground, placing the stolen bag in front of him. His hands shook as he untied the flap at the front. The red glow had now lessened in strength since he had picked up the bag and by the time he pushed aside the flap it had died almost completely.

There was no doubt now what had drawn him in.

From beneath a thin layer of cloth, the light continued to glow softly, pulsing steadily as he watched it. The whispers, calling his name, had become more rapid, desperate inside of his head.

Now, Ciaran hesitated. The Palantir was calling to him. His father had spoken to him of the Seeing Stone not long after they had first arrived in Edoras; he'd spoken of the madness the thing had brought out in Men unfortunate enough to come into contact with it and of its terrible dangers.

And yet, he realised that an object that could twist the minds of Men was obviously leaden with magic.

"Ciaran, come to me."

The voice seemed louder this time and it made the boy jump in surprise and look around as if expecting to see a physical presence near him.

"F-Father?"

"Come to me, my son."

Emotion sitting thickly in his throat, Ciaran reached out his hand toward the glowing ball of illuminated stone. Merely touching the thing could not hurt – perhaps it might bring him closer to his father, even offer a way to get him back. For all his reasoning, though, Ciaran found that his hand continued to hover uncertainly above the surface of the Stone, trembling slightly. He was afraid of what he might hear or see, of what might be conjuring this kind of magic and enticing him to connect with it.

"Ciaran," a different voice this time, lower in volume but somehow more powerful, "your father awaits you."

Who was speaking such immensely tempting promises? Ciaran looked around himself again but no one else had been disturbed by the new voice. Suddenly, he wished he could ask Legolas for his advice. But he would not do that because he was certain that the ever-sensible Legolas would talk him out of taking a peek at what was on offer and he did not want to be talked down from what might be his only chance to commune with his father once more. After all, the Elf had stripped him of that honour when he had been pulled unceremoniously away from the caves before he could do anything to aid his stricken sire.

"Ciaran, would you like to see your father again?" hissed the voice, recapturing Ciaran's attention.

Swallowing again, the young man answered, "Yes." He kept his own voice low, at a whisper, now fearing discovery.

A pause followed, as if the source of the voice was mulling over the possible routes it could now take with the hopeful boy. Then, "I can return him to you."

It did not sound right. Promises like that surely could not be fulfilled and even if they were, the consequences would not doubt not be pleasant for any to endure.

"How?" Ciaran asked all the same, curiosity winning over his fear.

"Would you like to see your father again?"

"I…Yes."

Ciaran could have sworn he heard a laugh but it was too quiet now to be sure. "First you must do something for me."

"What must I do?"

"Pick up the Stone of Seeing and find out."

That was it? All he had to do was pick up the Palantir and his father would be returned? Could it really be that simple?

"Come to me, Ciaran," the voice pleaded, this time an odd amalgamation of his father and the unknown.

"Wait. Who are you?" It couldn't hurt to be better informed as to what kind of creature he was dealing with.

A definite laugh this time. Then the voice taunted softly, wrapping around his mind, "You know."

Deep down, Ciaran feared that he did know.

"Does it matter, child? I can give you what you desire most."

"Why would you?"

"You all misunderstand me so very much. I am not so bad."

Ciaran thought he detected a hint of mockery in the wispy voice and it irked him a little. This was not the time for games, surely.

"I want to help you, child."

The young man doubted that. Malice, covered though it was by sweet words and promises, laid thickly in the tone. It was not to be trusted. And yet, what was pledged would be difficult for any to refuse.

Covering his face with his hands, torn between want and conscience, Ciaran softly cried, "I cannot."

"Such a simple thing." The voice had grown fainter. It was leaving him. Leaving him to his solitary misery. "Such a little thing you must do for me, child. Come to me."

Something tugged at Ciaran's mind, drawing him close again to the Palantir that sat somehow malevolently before him.

"Ciaran! Help me, I beg of you." The cry shocked him and he rocked backwards as it reverberated despairingly through his head.

"Father?" Shifting up onto his knees so he could peer into the bag at the glowing Palantir, Ciaran felt hope soar in his heart. "Father, is that really you?"

"It is me," confirmed Kinnale.

Tears streaked down Ciaran's face unchecked. "Where are you, Father?"

"Come to me, my son."

"How?"

"Do as he asks."

"But…"

"It will be all right. Soon we can be together again. You do want that, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Then you must do what is asked of you, son."

"I don't…"

"Don't be afraid of it."

"I am afraid," confessed the young man.

"All will be well."

"Do you swear it?"

"Yes, I swear."

With his indecision rapidly fading, Ciaran nodded and let his eyes drift closed again for a brief moment. Fear did indeed pulse inside his head but, even more, he so desperately wanted to see his beloved father again. Such promises were hard to reject.

"All right," he finally agreed and then, without giving himself any time to further debate over this choice, he reached into the bag and laid his hands on the Palantir.

Ripping off the cloth, Ciaran stared wide-eyed into the depths of the purple-veined stone encased in his trembling hands.

It was beautiful. The most beautiful thing he had ever seen in all his life. It positively thrummed with magic. Hidden in its depths he thought he saw the shadow of his father, a blurred shape, barely distinguishable even to one who was searching. Leaning closer, he squinted into the ball of swirling purple and red mist.

Laughter resounded through Ciaran's mind then, so loud that it hurt his head and made him wince. As the laughter grew in intensity, so the light changed too. It glowed bright red once more. Gasping as fire burst forth from the Palantir's centre burning his hands on the smooth stone which just seconds before had been cool, Ciaran attempted to pull away but by now it was too late - he was bound to it.

"Child," boomed a voice so very different from the sweet, reassuring one that had beckoned him and lured him this far.

"Let me go," whimpered Ciaran, closing his eyes against the intensity of the Palantir's glare.

But the presence, undoubtedly that of the Dark Lord himself, would do no such thing. It clung onto him tightly, digging deeper inside his vulnerable, open mind, cruelly delving for what secrets rested inside.

Fight though he did, the weak mind of the young boy proved itself to be no match for the dark will of the Lord of Shadow. The Great Eye, wreathed with raging flames that burned the inside of his body and soul, invaded every inch of him, seeking knowledge and weakness, ravaging any barrier that stood in its way.

Throughout the vicious onslaught, Ciaran could do nothing. He realised his mistake now but it was too late; there was no going back now. Release would be on Sauron's terms, not his. Crying out, he squeezed his eyes shut tight but the fire raged just as brightly behind his lids.

"Let me go!"

"I see you!" chimed the mocking voice inside his head and the pain reached its peak. He screamed.

**OIOI**

The entire camp was startled into awareness by the loud scream. Legolas leapt up, suddenly alert, recognising immediately who had issued the cry. A soft orange light came from the place where Ciaran had bedded down for the night and it illuminated the boy, showing him writhing in agony on the ground at its centre.

A quick glance around showed Legolas that his bag of possessions was missing. He knew then what was afflicting the young man.

Things moved fast then.

Some of those Men close to Ciaran moved uncertainly away, not understanding what was happening to their companion, whereas Janor and Aragorn rushed forward in an attempt to help their friend. For a long moment, Legolas was frozen to the spot, observing but unable to react immediately.

Only when Aragorn yelled Ciaran's name in alarm did Legolas snap out of his stupor.

"Aragorn, no!" the Elf shouted, lurching forward in a futile attempt to reach his ward before he could lay his hands on Ciaran and the Stone of Seeing.

It was too late though. Concerned for his friend at his time of suffering, Aragorn dropped to his knees and grabbed his arm in an attempt to get the young Ranger to release the mystical ball of stone without even considering the consequences of his actions.

Fire ripped through Aragorn the moment he laid hands on his friend, fanned by the sudden presence of the King of Men. His cries of agony joined Ciaran's.

Sauron's voice, clear and crisp, appeared in his own mind them.

Whispering, "Aragorn. Come to me." The Eye blazed before his eyes, wreathed still in fire and searing brightly against a backdrop of the blackest black. "It is almost time, King. We will meet…"

Legolas grabbed his ward's arm, wrenching it none too gently away from Ciaran. In the process, the Elf caught a flash of the flame, dazzling him in its intensity. The presence that swamped him was immediately recognisable as the Dark Lord of Mordor and his soul screamed in pain and terror.

In shock and horror, Legolas and Aragorn both toppled backwards, falling into a useless, crumpled, quivering heap on the ground. The jolt of Legolas' added presence had finally dislodged the Palantir from Ciaran's hands and he too fell backwards with a breathless scream.

The light and the whispers ceased straight away, leaving nothing but stunned silence and heavy breathing in their wake. Men stared at the Elf and the two Men, none knowing quite what to do. They feared to touch them just in case the same Shadow laced through them. Evil yet lingered in the air, leaving a bitter taste in the mouths of the soldiers of Light and making them understandably fearful.

"Aragorn," Legolas' voice, unusually weak, finally broke the thick blanket of silence.

Slowly, Legolas moved to sit up, only to discover that Aragorn remained leant against him where he had fallen after being disconnected from the power of the Palantir. The boy did not move at his call though. It seemed he had been rendered immobile by the dark effects of the Stone.

"Aragorn."

At the sound of the Elf calling the name of their king, several men rushed forwards, Jecha naturally being one of the first.

"Are you all right?" both Eomer and Jecha asked at the same time as they each took one of Aragorn's arms to help in to sit up.

In reply, Aragorn just nodded, head too clouded to think straight enough to answer verbally.

"Ciaran, can you hear me?" Janor's voice called louder above all the others. He was bent over Ciaran, who remained laid flat on his back, completely unresponsive. "Ciaran? Get a healer! Now!" the man yelled at the others gathered around him.

Someone ran off in search of one of the physicians but the majority of the crowd remained, both frightened and curious.

"Aragorn, look at me," Legolas demanded, now knelt before the young man, holding cold hands between his own. The man's eyes focused a little more on his guardian and he nodded again. "Tell me, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm all right." Already, the fuzziness was starting to clear and he was able to think clearly once more. "Are you?"

"Fine."

"Ciaran?"

Legolas looked over to where a young healer was hurrying towards the Ranger was being tended to by his companions Janor and Kalub.

"What was that?" Eomer demanded of Legolas.

"I think you know already."

Eomer's eyes darkened. Indeed, he had witnessed the horrible power of the Palantir, watched it twisting Human thoughts into madness and bringing forth death and horror but he had never seen anything quite that strong before. In the past, the Palantir seemed to have taken its time in warping the Human mind. This seemed almost instantaneous. He shuddered at the thought of where this additional potency had come from and only one answer sprung to mind. The Dark Lord had been perilously close this night. He had caught a much-coveted glimpse of his enemy.

Hauling himself wearily up to his feet, the Elven prince moved over to where Ciaran was now being encouraged to open his eyes. "Is everything all right?" he asked of the young healer tending him.

"Does he look all right to you?" snapped back the physician. The woman raised her eyes when she registered the impatient, irritated glare the Elf had fixed upon her. Sighing by way of apology, she explained, "I cannot tell yet. He does not respond."

"He has been touched by the Shadow."

"What does that mean?" demanded Jecha, although his concentration was solely on Aragorn and not on the son of Kinnale.

It was the healer who replied. "It means I don't know how to help him."

"The Shadow will clear in time."

"How do you know that?"

"I just do," Legolas said, turning away from Ciaran now that he had satisfied himself that the boy would live.

"Excellent."

"What about Aragorn?" Jecha asked persistently.

"He merely got a touch of the Shadow, a fleeting glance," Legolas assured confidently. " Just as I did." Every instinct told him to comfort his clearly still distressed ward who remained sat on the ground surrounded by people but there were more pressing matters to deal with first. His eyes scanned the ground, searching for the object, the source of the distress now filling their small camp. It had since grown dark once more, no longer pulsing with eerie, supernatural light. Still, it had not rolled far and Legolas spotted it with relative ease.

"Do not touch it!" he barked at a startled soldier who had just bent down to helpfully retrieve the misplaced Stone.

Legolas strode over and pushed the junior soldier roughly out of the way. The Stone of Seeing was quiet, dormant once more, but there was simply no way that he was going to risk laying his hands on it. Keeping his eyes on the dark orb, Legolas shrugged off his jacket and used it to wrap the Palantir securely up before lifting it off the ground.

"Just take it slowly."

"I'm going slowly," Aragorn mumbled irritably as he was helped to his feet by Jecha and Eomer, each holding one arm to steady the king.

"You've had a terrible shock."

"No, I'm fine." Raising his head, Aragorn sought out his guardian. "Legolas?"

"We have to leave."

"I had a feeling you would say that," sighed Eomer. That Elf was nothing if not predictable. Experience taught him that debate was useless so he turned to his gathered Men and called, "Get ready to move out."

"Did you feel it too?" Aragorn asked as he drew closer to his guardian.

"Yes, I felt it."

Dread filled Aragorn's heart, almost painful. "He knows."

**OIOI**

"My Lord?"

Many had been attracted by the almost maniacal laughter that echoed around the spacy halls of Barad-dur but few had the requisite courage to approach and investigate. Only the Dark Conduit, spokesperson for Sauron upon Middle Earth, dared go to his master.

"Foolish child," the Dark Lord croaked, his voice hoarse and strained through his laughter.

"Sire?"

The robed Lord of Mordor took a staggering step away from the stone plinth that held the glowing Seeing Stone. One gloved hand came to rest delicately upon his chest. Such mirth was draining him even though his vessel remained, for the time being, secure. But such joy simply could not be contained.

"Yes, everything is aligning at last."

"You have seen something, Master."

"Yes, seen. The strength of Men wanes. So easily manipulated."

Taking an awkward, hesitant step closer to his master, the Voice asked with a hideous grin, "Aragorn."

"So surrounded by fools that he does not see the truth laid before him." Sauron laughed, unnatural and hard even for the sycophants in his service to hear. "He thinks them assets, but they will prove his failing."

"My Lord?"

Collapsing rather gracelessly in exhaustion down into his chair in a billow of over-sized robes and an exhalation heavy with weariness, the Dark Lord smiled. "His strength will begin to wane soon enough. The fool plans to take the White City back from us. In this he is doomed to failure."

"Gondor?"

As he reached up to straighten out his hood, the Dark One agreed, "Daring. At Gondor he will meet his end. Never will this pretender meet me at my door."

The creature took a step forward, fluidly falling into an even lower standing bow, clasping hands, blackened and cracked, before him. "Our forces?"

"Unleash them upon the White City. Bring me the King of Fools."

Dropping closer still to the ground in genuflection, the spokesperson for the kingdom of Mordor cracked a horrifying grin of sheer pleasure. "I will see it done, my Lord," it sneered, backing away slowly. So far, the Son of Arathorn had evaded all attempts to halt him on his quest. What a joy it would be to out-do even the Nazgul and prove to his master that his place in the new order was vital. He would not be cut out of the Dark Lord's plans as others before him had been. He would take down the supposed king with his own hand, just as he had done with the arrogant fools in Rivendell.

His master's enemy would fall by his sword.

**To Be Continued…**


	57. Citadel Of The Host Of Stars

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 57 – Citadel Of The Host Of Stars**

"Captain?"

Grey eyes, mostly shrouded by the blanket of the night, turned at the call, whispered though it was. No man in this cursed town would dare to speak above a whisper in the dead of the night when the forces of Shadow lurked all about the borders. Even thicker than the darkness, fear blanketed the town, thick and potent as the fogs that shrouded the riverside.

"Anything?"

"Signs, Captain, in the north quarter, but no actual hostiles observed."

The blonde head nodded once, sharply before he turned back to observing the river. "For now. Keep the watches. Remain vigilant."

"Yes sir."

"Ah, Captain!"

All startled, physically jolting at the sharpness of the loud noise cutting through the thick silence of the city. Rolling his eyes in irritation, the Captain turned to the ignorant child who had alerted any enemy close by of the presence of the watch.

Through teeth gritted in irritation, he demanded, "What is it?" in a harsh whisper.

"Um, you are wanted, sir, at the command post. The Steward wishes to speak with you, sir," the child no more than ten years old and with the privilege of being a messenger amongst the warriors, relayed the message then scurried away before the Captain could display his wrath.

"Thank you."

Gesturing bluntly to his fellow soldiers to wake over the watch, he sheathed his sword in one swift, practiced motion, and turned to leave.

The streets were quiet, deserted as expected, and dark but for the flaming torch he used to light his way. In the town, the people clustered together in the heart of the city where it was considered to be safest. No one but the soldiers would dare venture out after dark. Too many monsters threatened the night, even with patrols working all four quarters of the city in an attempt to keep them out.

Upon swinging open the door of the battered tavern currently serving as the command post, the captain handed his torch over to a waiting soldier and executed a brief bow. It was of little point though as the subject of his genuflection had his back to the door and did not turn at the entrance of his captain.

"You sent for me, sire?"

The Steward's head turned to the side at the sound of the voice but he made no further reaction. On the table before him were spread several worn maps, which were illuminated by a single candle burned almost to the end sitting at a crooked angle on a cracked saucer built up with wax. Several men, identified by their heavy black formal robes as members of Gondor's esteemed Council, averted their eyes from the captain even as he stood waiting for an acknowledgement.

"Speak," the Steward's rough voice commanded, loud and stern.

The councillors exchanged uncertain looks before one leaned forward, hands splayed against the table he leant on, mirroring the stance taken by his Steward.

"Orcs, my Lord, spotted in the south."

"I…"

"What say you to that, Faramir?" asked the Steward in a low growl, accusingly almost.

"My Lord, I cannot…"

"This must not be allowed to happen!" His hands banged hard down on the table, making all around jump in surprise.

Faramir, son of the Steward and Captain of the Gondorian Guard, such as it now was, let his eyes fall closed momentarily. Still early and already the accusations were flying. Hardly novel. Returning his once more steady gaze to his father, Faramir straightened his posture and hardened his resolve. He would endure this as he had done countless times before.

"Once more you have failed me." Around the table, the men shifted uncomfortably. They liked Faramir, respected him, they never enjoyed seeing him get so thoroughly beat up every day by his father, one who had neither any respect or time for his son.

"I will send a patrol in that direction right away."

"Yes," drawled the Steward bitterly. "You do that. And pray that it does not prove too little too late."

Pursing his lips to stave off any retort that was building up in his mind, Faramir nodded in a terse manner, offered a bow to his father's back then left once again. Not one report of Enemy activity or movement in the south of the city had reached the ears of the troops so how the Steward and his fusty council knew of it evaded Faramir. Still, he had been ordered to investigate and deal with the threat so he would obey. Maybe his father held no esteem for his son – his only surviving child – but Faramir respected Denethor and wanted so much to make him proud, to feel worthy of the title of heir to the Stewardship of Gondor.

"We're checking the south quarter," Faramir announced as he approached his men and all eyes turned from where they watched the river towards their fuming captain.

He did not wait for them to respond, simply turned and strode back away, knowing that his regular patrol would follow without the need for a formal command.

Never in a thousand years would Faramir say a bad word against his father. Better to stand in silence, take the criticism and quietly fume for the rest of the night whilst carrying out whatever pointless order was handed down to him. The time-honoured tradition between father and son would continue onwards, probably until the end of their lives.

Fortunately, the rapid pace he set through the dark, quiet city blew off some of his anger so by the time the group of Men approached the south quarter of the city where the reports of Orcs had come from, stealth had been restored to their movements.

Faramir drew his sword. He may have doubted the vague reports of Orcs but he was not about to take any unnecessary risks.

"Search the area," he whispered to his men.

At least once a week the patrols divided and swept the entire city for signs of Enemy activity so they were well practiced in the skills of searching their derelict town. Spreading out, they checked in empty houses and abandoned shops and dark alleyways, looking for any sign that Orcs were about or had been present recently.

"There's nothing here," sighed one man when, twenty minutes later, they reunited in what had once been the city square.

"And nothing has been here for a good while," another agreed.

"Sir?"

After sweeping his eyes once more around the square they were gathered in, Faramir nodded, sheathing his sword.

"You're right. This was a waste of time. Let's go."

The patrol fell into line and filed out of the square, the only noise the soft footsteps on dusty, cracked roads, rarely used anymore since people had abandoned the outer reaches of the city. So, when a high-pitched scream pierced the cold night air, all the soldiers startled, instinctively whipping out their weapons as they formed a tight defensive circle.

"Perhaps this quarter is not quite so secure after all," one of the vigilant soldiers noted dryly.

"Stay close together," warned Faramir in an urgent whisper. "I think it came from this direction."

He led them back through the streets, although they moved slowly and with caution that had been more lax before the terrified scream. A general direction was not enough in this case, so Faramir once again ordered his men to split up and search the houses. Each moved carefully, taut, waiting for some horror to leap out at them from the darkness.

So focused on the streets and doorways were the soldiers that one of them found the source of the scream quite by accident. He literally tripped right over it. Only when he regained his feet and made an effort to scrub the dirt from his trousers in the fervent hope that none of his companions had witnessed his clumsiness and that he could erase all evidence of such, did he look down and suddenly back away.

"Captain!" The cry was loud in the thick quiet of the town and the soldiers congregated rapidly, descending upon the square, following the sound of the cry to gather around the body of the murdered woman.

"What could have done this?" asked one of the men as another moved into a doorway to vomit, the smell of blood and death too much for his weak constitution.

Swallowing thickly, Faramir raised his eyes from the fresh kill and sighed, "I have no idea." Something so brutal had to be dangerous indeed. No mindless Orc could have done this. They were brutal in battle but did not savage their enemies thusly. Something altogether more dangerous was hunting in the city of Osgiliath. "We are not going to find anything tonight," the Captain decided, once more sheathing his blade now he was confident that the murderer did not linger in the vicinity. "No one walks these streets anymore so the evidence will not be disturbed, we can figure this out later. Let's go."

"What about…" one of the startled soldiers nodded towards the mangled corpse, laid in an ungraceful heap on the cobbled pavement.

"We'll return at first light."

The man nodded in agreement with his Captain. However much he felt for this poor innocent, he did not want to loiter on these dark streets with some sadistic killer on the loose. Whatever had done this likely would not return now. The unfortunate soul would remain untouched for what remained of the night. "Move out."

In silence, or as close to silence as was possible for Humans to come, they made their way rapidly back through the winding city streets. The whole time, they remained on high alert, fearful of the creature that prowled the streets.

"Just keep your eyes peeled for…"

Confusion ruled for a long moment as Faramir ran right into another solid body, almost crashing to the ground upon the unexpected impact. It was only a beat before weapons were trained upon the intruders within the city, however, and Faramir rapidly pulled away, relieved to find that he was in no way restrained, and drew his own sword again, squinting through the darkness to see what or who he had collided with.

"You should be more careful," warned a light voice.

Sword now in his hand, Faramir took in the sight of the voice's owner now that his eyesight had adjusted and his heart no longer raced so fast he couldn't breathe. He found that he was no longer so afraid for surely such a beautiful voice could not be the source of the hideous violence the soldiers had stumbled upon just moments before.

"Identify yourselves," he nevertheless snapped in demand, knowing that his duty to the safety of his town and its people took precedent.

"We come to you in peace."

"Indeed?"

A cursory glance told Faramir that there were six of them in total, not one of them from the city of Osgiliath for he did not recognise them. The one speaking was clearly the youngest but not by much. Dark hair, beard and grey eyes that although clearly weary were friendly enough as they watched Faramir and his men sizing him up. Another stood at his side, weapons held in such a state of readiness that Faramir knew that if he tried anything he'd be dead before his hand touched the younger man. Faramir would have guessed father but for the fact that he was only a few years older and looked nothing like the younger man.

The other four intruders stood back, kept their distance although they remained at the ready for a confrontation.

"You have a name?" Faramir asked tightly, his own sword held pointed at the man, unwavering despite his anxiousness. He might not have suspected them of murdering the unfortunate woman but that didn't mean they could be trusted. The Enemy was everywhere and walked in all manner of disguises.

"Do you?"

Narrowing his eyes, Faramir challenged stubbornly, "You first."

For a beat, the man seemed to be debating what to do, casting a quick glance towards the taller blonde man at his side. Then, much to Faramir's surprise – and the blonde man's disapproval, it seemed – the man lowered his sword.

"Aragorn. My name is Aragorn."

No lie shone in 'Aragorn's' eyes so Faramir answered likewise in truth, "I am Faramir."

"Good to meet you, Faramir."

"And your friends?"

Aragorn looked around at the others and gave a quick nod. Immediately, they all lowered their respective weapons, confirming Faramir's suspicion that Aragorn was their captain.

"This is Legolas." The blonde man. Pointing behind him, Aragorn then identified the others. "Kalub, Janor, Veron and Jecha." None made any sign of acknowledgement so Faramir also remained indifferent, merely narrowing his eyes in a subtle display of suspicion echoed far more blatantly by his own people who remained armed and ready behind him.

"And your purpose here?"

Once more, the man, Aragorn, cast a glance in the way of the blonde man stood sharply to attention at his side as if it were his natural instinct to turn to the other for guidance. Perhaps, then, this young man had not always been a leader. Indeed, he was young, so obviously inexperienced despite all the pretence to the contrary.

"We come to look for the defenders of Gondor."

"Is that so?" Shrewd grey eyes moved back to his lieutenant. "Or perhaps to pick off the innocent of my city?"

A frown, seemingly genuine, creased the brow of the man identified as Aragorn. "I beg your pardon?"

"The woman, slaughtered and maimed on these streets."

Aragorn as he called himself seemed to be genuinely distressed by the accusation. "We know nothing of what you speak," said the man after a while.

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"So it is merely coincidence then that such an atrocity coincides with your arrival here?" the Faramir demanded frostily.

"Yes."

It must have been clear that Faramir did not believe this claim of innocence because Legolas stood taller, stiffer still, his hand drifting to where his blade now hung from his belt. Protectiveness fairly exuded from the blonde man. Definitely related, Faramir decided. Dangerous, indeed, a protective relative would always prove.

"I'm afraid that I am not so easily convinced. If you are indeed guiltless in this crime then you would consent to being restrained and go before the Steward to explain your presence here."

"This is how you treat innocent visitors to your kingdom?" asked the man Aragorn had named as Jecha. So thick was his accent, impossible to place, that Faramir had to work hard to even understand the individual words being spoken. No warmth was expressed in his voice. He did not seem particularly friendly towards those who travelled with him either. Most certainly not family.

"Your innocence has yet to be proven."

Aragorn considered it for a moment and then sent an almost apologetic look to Legolas before saying, "Very well. If that would put you at ease."

"Sir?" the accented man asked, taking a step forward.

"We are visitors here. We must do as we are asked if it would make our hosts more comfortable with our presence."

The simple statement seemed to be all the finely attired man needed, as he retreated back a step as a sign of obedience.

Faramir nodded, one Captain to another, although oddly Aragorn did not respond in kind. Inexperienced. Not a leader for any length of time and uncertain of how to behave around likewise authority.

"Restrain them."

Guards, cautious and yet with an air of false confidence, moved around their captain. They outnumbered the newcomers and each took one of the men by the arm so they acted as an escort to these people they didn't trust.

"You will be taken to the command centre where you will have an audience with the Steward," Faramir told them, taking the lead back through the streets.

"Why is it that whenever I go anywhere with you I always end up being bound by distrustful Men?" muttered Kalub under his breath to Legolas.

"It does seem to be a regular occurrence," the Elf agreed, although in this instance he might have preferred a show of dominance rather than surrender. Still, Aragorn had to make the ultimate decision and he was bound to follow.

"Your Steward," Aragorn tried to strike up conversation with the captain as he was led through the streets just behind him, "he is a fair man?"

Hesitation. Faramir had to be diplomatic when his sire was concerned and yet he hesitated in declaring Denethor a good, reasonable man because he could not do so with complete truth and confidence.

"I see," Aragorn mumbled, somewhat disheartened, before the captain could formulate an answer.

"He will judge you."

Not exactly the assurance Aragorn had been looking for.

As the Rohirrim and Rangers had approached the city of Osgiliath, sitting not far from the ancient White City of Minas Tirith now under the banner of Mordor, Aragorn learned more about his own broken line and how the Stewards had taken over guardianship of Gondor and its people. Little was known of their exact position and circumstances though. They knew nothing of the Steward's character, whether he was equitable or whether he would accept the tale Aragorn had to tell.

Nerves fluttered in Aragorn's stomach now. How would the Steward, keeper of the throne in lieu of the true king, respond to Aragorn's claims on said throne? With anger or relief?

He could not falter now though. Everything he had been through had been leading up to this very point – from Legolas' training of him to searching out the Rangers and eventually all other Free men, building his army to take back from the clutches of the Shadow this, his kingdom.

"What is this? Not Orcs," observed Denethor when Faramir entered and presented his find to the still deliberating Council.

"No, Father." Aragorn raised his head at this. Faramir was the son of the Steward. Why was nothing ever straight forward? "We found them in the south quarter, along with the murdered body of a young woman."

Denethor rose from his seat, locking gazes with the young man who must have been the leader as he had been positioned at the head of the group of prisoners.

"Spies," he declared without preamble. Murmurs of agreement went up amongst the old men around the table.

'_Fair, indeed!'_ thought Kalub.

Aragorn answered with perfect calm and obvious sincerity. "We are not spies, nor did we have anything to do with the death of that unfortunate woman Faramir mentioned."

The suspicion shone brighter than ever in Denethor's dark eyes. "No?"

"No, sir."

"Then explain to me why you are here if not to spy on the people of Osgiliath."

"We seek out the Steward of Gondor."

Denethor's eyes narrowed further. "I am he."

"I am Aragorn, sir. This is Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, Kalub, Janor and Veron of the Dunedain and Jecha."

The stern Steward offered no welcome, his countenance not softening any at the introductions that Aragorn had rather hoped would help build trust. Nor did the old man give any indication that he recognised any of the names Aragorn had reamed off. Word of the exploits of the gathered Men had clearly not reached the ears of Gondor or its keeper.

"If not to slaughter innocent citizens of my city, why have you come?" asked the suspicious Steward after a brief pause during which he closely examined those men stood before him.

At this, Aragorn glanced around the room. It was filled almost to capacity with guards, prisoners and councillors; too many to say with confidence what he had to.

"May we speak in private, my Lord?"

Immediately, Denethor recoiled at the suggestion. Seldom did he do anything without the approval of his Council; that way blame for any mistakes would fall upon the whole rather than him alone. A handy tool to have when every man, woman and child in Gondor looked to him for guidance. It would not do for their mighty, trusted Steward to be held accountable for all wrongs that befell the kingdom. Therefore, to be left alone in a room with possibly dangerous men was the last thing he would agree to.

"You may speak anything before the Council," replied the Steward in a strong, flat voice.

Once again, Aragorn's eyes moved around the serious-looking members of what he presumed to be the Council to which the prickly Steward had referred.

"I do not think that a good idea. It might be better in…"

"Speak," boomed the man loudly.

Aragorn nodded once.

"Very well."

**OIOI**

"Get out!"

"My Lord…"

"Out!" screamed Denethor to the unfortunate young man who had been charged with bringing food to the incensed Steward. Wisely, the servant abandoned his task, beating a hasty retreat and taking the meal with him.

For over an hour now, the Steward had been furiously pacing back and forth in the council chamber. What he had been told had understandably not gone down well. And more people knew than just him. The whole Council had heard that boy's ridiculous claims and delusions. Everything, within the space of just a few minutes, had been thrown off kilter. A claimant to the throne. It was absurd. The line of kings was long broken. It could not possibly have now come back into being. No, it was simply not possible. Lies. It had to all be lies. Evil trickery employed by the Shadow to upset the balance and breed distrust within his kingdom. Yes, dark magic was at work here. That had to be it.

**OIOI**

"Well, that went well," dead-panned Kalub as the door to their temporary prison, an old boarded-up shop of some kind that stank of something dead, was locked by the guards who had just escorted them here after their meeting with the Steward. "I hate to say 'I told you so'."

"No, you don't," Janor interrupted as he rubbed his arm, which had been gripped hard enough by the guards to cause pain, probably in their haste to drag them away from the Steward before murder was put on the agenda.

"You're right. I don't."

"Would you two be quiet?" sighed Aragorn as he sat down in a rickety chair in the corner of the room.

Retaining remarkable calm given that they were imprisoned, Janor reasoned, "He did not have us executed on the spot for speaking of treason. That has to be a good thing."

"A silver lining? Never would have expected that from you," deadpanned Kalub.

"People continually surprise you, do they not, Kalub?"

"Constantly."

Janor, trying his best to remain as calm and collected as all but one of the others appeared to be, asked, "So, what now?"

It was Legolas who answered. "We wait."

"For what? Them to realise that execution is the way to go after all?" Kalub put in.

"No. We hope the Steward calms down enough to be reasonable about this."

The tracker scoffed, kicking angrily at an empty storage jar that lay in his way. "Sure. All he needs is time to hand over his kingdom to the supposed king."

"It is not his kingdom," corrected Jecha tightly, ever the champion of the royal line and its true place in Gondor. "This realm belongs to Aragorn and he has every right to claim it. And the Steward cannot stand in the way of that."

"And yet, here we are, locked up with the king of Gondor," Janor pointed out, gesturing at Aragorn.

"Yes." Jecha elegantly leant back up against the dusty wooden counter of the derelict shop, ankles crossed neatly over one another. "You have a point there. His welcome is indeed lacking."

"You tied us up when we first met," Kalub grouched.

"Really?" Janor grinned. "Interesting. You never told us that."

The Ranger flushed with indignation and embarrassment. "Well, I didn't think it was important."

"Important? Probably not. Amusing? Most definitely." Janor laughed out loud but the sound seemed so strangely inappropriate that he immediately regretted it.

"So we just wait?" It was once more Kalub who shattered the quiet, simply to disperse the tension that had built up between them all.

"Yes, we wait."

It was at times like this that Kalub wished he possessed the patience of his fellow Rangers. He had never been good at waiting. Even as a child under the protection of his foster family in Bree he was always on the move, always up to some mischief, driving the warriors around him to distraction as he sought to learn from them and join them. Many put-upon man had been grateful when Kinnale's predecessor, then Captain of the Rangers, had taken him under his wing and taught him the skills required to be a tracker.

Given his need to constantly be moving, the job had suited him and by the time Kinnale had taken up the mantle of Captain, Kalub had been indispensable to their mission.

Unfortunately, for all his training, skill and knowledge, his nature remained unchanged. Not one person nor instance they'd found themselves in had doused that need to move.

So now, as morning rose over the kingdom of Gondor, Kalub remained on his feet, pacing to the window and then back to the opposite wall in the hope that it might cure his restlessness. Only a crack in the wood boarding up the windows allowed light in, announcing the dawn, but unfortunately for the impatient Ranger, it was too narrow to see anything or anyone outside.

"You want to get some rest?"

Kalub looked up at the sound of the voice but it had was immediately obvious that Janor wasn't speaking to him. So, he resumed his agitated pacing.

"I'm fine," Aragorn answered. "Thank you."

"Really you should sleep," put in Jecha, who remained relaxing almost tranquilly against the shop's counter.

Aragorn wanted to protest that he wasn't tired but the thought merely conjured up a yawn, making the words pointless. He settled for, "I'm fine."

Silence blanketed them all once more. Only the same conversation would ensue if they spoke – how they were going to get out of this – and that had proved frustratingly futile because the same arguments led to the same conclusions, which were not at all helpful.

After another few minutes, Jecha moved away from the counter and walked to the window, interrupting Kalub's pattern much to the man's consternation, and bent so he could look out the crack in the wood.

"See anything?" Janor enquired even though Kalub had already reported that nothing of note was visible.

"Only the arm of one of our guards."

"Excellent. That solves all our problems!" Kalub muttered darkly.

Jecha threw the Ranger a dirty look then turned back to the window, saying dryly. "Your sarcasm is not helpful."

"I just wish they would make up their minds what they want to do with us."

"So you have said. But we cannot exactly hurry them along."

"Maybe Aragorn should insist upon seeing the Steward again? Try to talk some sense into him," Janor suggested helpfully.

"And say what?" Aragorn asked, looking up. "He did not listen the first time, pushing him to come to a conclusion could only make things worse."

"Worse than being locked up and left to rot?"

It was Jecha, once more having left the slim view of the outside to recline back against the dust-layered counter, who spoke in answer. "They could kill us out straight."

"That might have been preferable."

Legolas moved for the first time since their imprisonment, drawing up his long legs, which had been stretched out before him, and getting to his feet. "What about Faramir – the Captain? He seemed like a rational man. Comparatively."

"You think he might put in a good word for us?"

"Rather him than that Council of theirs," Janor contributed reasonably.

"Quite. I'd imagine them to be most unhelpful." A scathing report from Jecha who the others imagined would rather respect the fusty Gondorian council members who had sat quietly and stoically as Aragorn had informed the Steward of his place upon Gondor's throne and his obligation to step down. Upon seeing Denethor's reaction, the men on the Council had turned to one another and began talking in excited whispers about the revelation. Not one had dared to express an opinion and none had raised a voice to object when their proclaimed king had been arrested.

"Definitely should dispense with them once you take the throne."

Aragorn shot Kalub a scathing glance upon the remark, no matter how flippantly it was said. Any reminder of what they had come all this way to do still put him on edge. Duty weighed heavily on his mind and heart, even more so now he was in the heart of a kingdom that was rightfully his, regardless of the intentions of Gondor's temporary keeper who kept the threat to his rule safely contained.

Before any other could chastise Kalub for his thoughtless comment, the door opened and all irritation and arguments left them to be replaced with alert caution.

In the doorway, flanked by four armed guards, stood Faramir, son of their captor. Suspicion shone blatantly in light grey eyes as they swept unselfconsciously over the men standing watching him. He had not come here to gain trust.

After almost a full minute of just staring at one another, Faramir broke the silence by stepping over the threshold, taking what looked to be a bracing breath, and then announced with confidence associated with one held in high regard in his command, "We need to talk."

Contradictory to Faramir's declaration, silence followed. Neither side trusted one another. How could they reasonably? One side was come to effectively usurp the rule of Gondor whilst the other was unswervingly loyal to the Stewardship, bound by blood to the cause that had sustained the besieged kingdom through its trials.

Once Faramir had finished sizing up the opposition, regardless that they had remained eyeing him with open suspicion, he turned his head to the side and ordered his stern contingent of guards to leave and shut the doors behind them.

Although surprise registered on all four faces, the guards did as asked. They trusted their captain in spite of all the distrust and disappointment rained down upon him by his father and his Council.

It took a moment for Faramir to strike up a discourse between them. He seemed genuine in his words though, if not a little nervous and unsure.

"I am sorry about…this."

"Our imprisonment, you mean? That is easily rectified."

Grey eyes narrowed at the crimson-garbed man who had fixed him with a glare that equally communicated indignation, reason and calculation. This one did not like to be caged. In fact, Faramir thought, that of all the men caught in his father's net, the one with the pristine formal dress and clipped thick accent from distant lands seemed the most regal. Much more than Aragorn, the proclaimed king of Gondor. Perhaps if it had been this man, Jecha, Faramir recalled the unusual name, had gone before the Steward, Denethor would not have been so hasty in denying the claims and incarcerating those who spoke them. Indeed, no doubt Denethor would have quailed under the stare of those dark eyes. Faramir found that thought peculiarly pleasing.

"I'm afraid that I am not permitted to release you." No regret entered Faramir's tone, however.

"Why are you here then?"

"Kalub," Aragorn sharply snapped at the tracker's impulsive, ungracious question. Clearly, the Captain did not have to be there. Given that so far he had been the most rational person they had come across so far, Aragorn did not want to frighten him off with foolish, impetuous comments. Looking to a grateful Faramir, Aragorn asked calmly, "What did you wish to talk about?"

Now that the situation had settled somewhat, Faramir hesitated. Disobedience had seemed like a good idea when he had been sat before the fire considering it the night previous, but now that he stood on the brink of it he was rendered uncertain. The consequences could be immense for him and his people.

But he had come this far. It would be cowardly to swerve from this path now.

"You. I want to talk about you," he stated bluntly to Aragorn. "Tell me everything."

'Everything' was a big ask but then Aragorn in turn was asking a lot of the man he perceived to be a loyal subject of the Stewardship. He owed the truth to Faramir for his boldness in approaching him.

So, he told Faramir all of his trials to get here. The death of his father, his being placed in the guardianship of Legolas who had been charged with tutoring and preparing him. Janor spoke of the Rangers and their turning to his cause. No representative of Rohan stood amongst them but all the captives spoke highly of Eomer and his people and how they had been instrumental in beginning the gathering of the army to them.

Faramir listened patiently, occasionally interrupting the narrative with pertinent questions, determined as he was to gain as much knowledge as possible from this encounter.

Some of that which Aragorn told him seemed unlikely to Faramir and yet he listened with perfect patience and politeness. After all, he had come for this very reason, to give these men the chance his father had not.

When Aragorn had finished, leaving out nothing but the very darkest secrets that he felt Faramir was not ready to hear, the Captain stood in contemplative silence. He had imagined that if Denethor had listened to Aragorn's tale in full then he might have been more generous with his guests but, having heard the story, he realised that more likely Denethor would have cut them down where they stood or branded them completely insane

"Well..." Words did not come easily to Faramir. Questions, he had plenty of those. But there was the very real possibility that if he pushed for answers the sheer volume of information gained might just overwhelm him. Instead, he blew out a long breath and stretched his legs, simply for something to do.

Upon looking up, he realised that six pairs of eyes were watching him eagerly, waiting for some response.

Unfortunately for Aragorn and his followers, the Captain did not have anything to give them. So, putting the Men out of their misery for the time being at least, Faramir said, "I will think upon all you have told me."

"Captain Faramir," called Aragorn, halting the man's progress towards the door, "please, we need your help. We have come a long way for it."

The plea reached Faramir but he shoved his sympathy for their need aside and said, "For help or to overturn my father's rule and rob me of my birth-right?" Colder than he had anticipated but that thought, that selfish side, lived deep within him and came to the fore now. It was, after all, his inheritance that this supposed king threatened.

Aragorn startled at the reaction. This man, who had seemed reasonable when they had first met, had his own agenda and Aragorn realised that it was unlikely that it would fit in with his own quest. He shot a glance in the direction of his mentor but Legolas had been watching, observing this whole time and he made no reaction now. How Aragorn missed the days when the Elf would tell him exactly what to do and how to go about it. But, he had gotten them into this mess so it was up to him to see it through.

"Please, will you at least think about what I have said?" pleaded Aragorn in one last effort to endear Faramir to their cause.

Faramir seemed undecided even in this but after a beat, he nodded, a slow, thoughtful movement. "Very well. I will think on it as you ask." That at least he owed this man. For all his doubts, Faramir could not fault his boldness. A certain amount of respect had to be given to Aragorn for that.

"Thank you."

"Just once I would like things to be simple, for someone to say 'of course we'll help, tell us what to do'," Janor said after the door had closed behind Faramir.

"Chance would be a fine thing," muttered Kalub, disappointment that this meeting had not been overly productive obvious in his voice.

"He said he'd think about it. That's something," Aragorn added reasonably, at least attempting to see the bright side in all this.

"You think?"

Jecha paced gracefully along the width of the room and agreed with Aragorn, "I don't think it reasonable to ask for more from him. He did not even have to hear us out."

"So what now?" Janor asked.

It was Kalub who answered, a mix of annoyance and frustration. "Let me guess: We wait?"

**To Be Continued…**


	58. Siege

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 58 – Siege**

Faramir sat on an upturned wooden crate, staring blankly into the flames of the fire he shared with three other soldiers who were using this rare break, lull in activity, to relax and unwind from their toils against the Shadow's forces.

"You look deep in thought," commented Maran, his faithful lieutenant and right-hand man.

Faramir nodded simply, scrubbing his hand through his hair. He did indeed have much to think about. So much had he learned from the prisoner under his father's capture; it was a lot to consider.

"Drink," another man offered, holding a tin cup before his Captain's face.

"Thank you." Alcohol would do nothing to clear his mind and yet he accepted it gratefully.

Before he could take even a sip though, loud shouts resounded all around him, calls from guards posted on duty. Faramir leapt to his feet, cup clattering to the ground as he dropped it in favour of drawing his sword. All his soldiers on leave for the night followed their captain's action, whipping out their swords. For a moment they stood, trying to work out where the attack was coming from.

"River!"

Faramir's worst fears materialised so abruptly that he barely had time to register what this meant as he ran through the streets and eventually clashed with Orcs that had already gotten past the first lines of defence. They were attacking from the river for all the preparations the Gondorian soldiers had made in guarding the river and the Pelennor Fields that connected Osgiliath with the overrun city of Minas Tirith, they still found themselves taken by surprise.

Already the soldiers guarding the Anduin had raised the alarm; soon soldiers would come from the depths of the city, where they guarded the residential areas, to back them up. But Faramir remained determined to get to the centre of the action, never one to see his men take on the dangers of the Shadow whilst he remained safely behind the lines. He and his faithful lieutenant, slaughtering any Enemy that dared to cross their path, forced their way towards the river and what they saw when they reached the river's banks made them come up short, unable to do anything but stare.

Literally hundreds of Orcs and Uruk-hai assaulted the thin Human contingency trying desperately to stem the flow of the cursed creatures who were already stomping off of flimsy rafts and paddling towards the shore, using those who had already been struck down as stepping stones to get to the river's banks. The Humans found themselves completely overwhelmed. No one could have anticipated this level of attack.

Even with every soldier in Osgiliath brandishing a weapon, Faramir knew it would never be enough.

For years the Men of Gondor had feared this assault. Things had fallen so quiet after the taking of Minas Tirith and the driving of its people into the mostly decrepit capital city of Osgiliath. In the wake of that relative peace, they had come to believe, perhaps unwisely, that the legions of Shadow had lost interest in wiping out the remaining Gondorians encamped in the city. How that had turned against them now. Complacency had ever been the folly of Men; even the most pompous amongst their race had to concede to that.

"Captain! We are outnumbered!" shouted Faramir's lieutenant as he made his way through the battle towards his commander.

"Hold the line!" Faramir yelled above the terrible noise of fighting as Light engaged Shadow on the banks of the Great River. "They must not be allowed to reach the city!" Should the Orcs get past the lines of the valiant defenders, the people in the city beyond would be entirely at the mercy of the Shadow. What horrors then the innocents would have to endure, Faramir did not like to think upon, should the creatures get ahold of them. Never could that be allowed to happen. Faramir, son of the Steward, would rather die upon the battlefield than let the Shadow get its claws into the innocents of Osgiliath.

"Captain!"

Faramir thrust his sword two-handed through the exposed neck of an Uruk and then turned at the call of his soldier. At first he did not know why in the midst of battle his name had been shouted in anything other than warning of a foe's approach, what, after all could be so important that his attention needed to be taken away from the fight when his life and the lives of others depended upon his full concentration. His attention was nevertheless diverted from the bloody task at hand and the soldier pointed in bewilderment towards the ruins of the city and Faramir was stunned to see Denethor himself approaching the melee, several jittery Council members hurrying behind him, eyes roving all around for any signs of approaching danger.

He looked ridiculous, approaching the battle with what seemed false bravado. He was unarmed; no sword strapped to his belt, as though because of his title and position no enemy would dare approach him. Rather than the clothing of a soldier, he wore his dusty old Council robes, which looked more regal than practical and made him stand out as important amongst the many soldiers milling about and made him a prime target for any observant Orc or Uruk. It was foolish of him, Faramir thought angrily, to come into battle thusly, endangering all those around him as well as himself. Denethor and his Council had not come to add their strength to the fight.

Gondor's caretaker was no warrior, after all. In the years of his youth he had been known to occasionally venture onto the field of battle if need or sire demanded it but he was no valiant prince morally charged with the defence of his home. The Steward was the last thread of Human command in Gondor and the line must ever be protected lest Gondor and its people fall entirely into chaos and thus into the throes of the Shadow. With no brother to serve as heir should he fall in battle, the young Denethor had been guarded and protected by his father and he had always been quite happy with that arrangement. Once the Men had begun to lose ground to the Orcs and Uruk-Hai in Minas Tirith, Denethor had been summarily banned from returning to the fight, much to his immense and private relief. Never had the lust to spill blood coursed through his veins. Diplomacy was more his forte – not cowardice as some gossips might have speculated, so he maintained to this very day. Certainly since he had taken up the burden of Stewardship upon his father's demise, he had not brandished any weapon but a pen, leaving such exertions up to the younger and braver men. It gave him his long life for sure, but Faramir knew that this way of life did little to endear him to those who, every day, placed their lives on the line in Gondor's defence. That was where Denethor's loyal son came in extremely handy. For all his desire to keep from danger himself, Denethor felt no compunction in sending out his only surviving son and heir into battle, caring not that with should Faramir fall then the line of Stewards would be broken.

So, it was extremely unexpected that the Steward of Gondor and his equally idle Council now ventured onto the field of battle.

Faramir let out a growl of annoyance as he made his way over to where his father had come to a halt safely behind the barrier promptly created by his soldiers. Now was not the time for his father to proffer a display of diplomacy. Orcs would never listen to reason. His presence would only prove distracting and ultimately meddlesome.

"Father!"

"These Orcs must be kept back, Faramir."

As if he didn't know that already! "What are you doing out here?"

Denethor made no other response but to fold his arms over his chest and dip his head to prompt his son back into action.

"It is too dangerous out here, Father, you must return to the city!" cried Faramir as he heard the clashing of metal upon metal moving ever closer as the Orcs sought to get past the soldiers.

Still, the Captain's plea was ignored and he shook his head in disappointment. There was no point, he knew in trying to talk his father around. He was just wasting time here.

So, with nothing more to say on the matter, Faramir forced back his ire and turned. He would not forsake his men in favour of understanding his enigmatic father, understanding that had forever eluded him. His men and the innocents of Osgiliath, who by now no doubt had retreated to the safety of their homes, just in case the barriers of soldiers failed to keep out the filth of Mordor, were all that mattered this night. Still, Faramir pledged that he would never allow the monsters to defile his home.

**OIOI**

His men were fast tiring. The strength of the scourge of Sauron was proving too great even for these battle-hardened warriors, some with decades of experience under their belts. Already several Orcs had slipped through their Human net, tight though they had tried to keep it. Inevitably, holes were beginning to appear, cracks weakening its fundamental integrity and thus the filth of Sauron were beginning to slip through. If things carried on in this manner, all of Gondor's surviving population would be under serious threat; when no soldiers lived to protect them. Faramir could not suffer his people to come to harm, not when he had sworn countless times before them that he would defend them at any cost.

Twice already had the line of Men guarding the city been forced to retreat, losing yet more ground to these most hated creatures.

And now, his lieutenant approached him, breathless and exhausted as they all were, and dragged his captain from the fray.

"Sir, you must sound the retreat!" he called over the noise of battle.

"Retreat to where? There is nowhere to go!" Faramir cried in desperation, shooting a look back over his shoulder to where the city was built up, suddenly looking no longer to be sturdy stone but rather horribly weak, exposed and vulnerable. It was true. Given Osgiliath's position, there was no escape. To the west lay the overrun city of Minas Tirith and every other point on the compass was empty, open space. If they attempted to run, the Men would be picked off all too easily by the Enemy. The only possible safe haven was the mountains, despite their worrying proximity to Mordor, but Faramir doubted that with the women, children, elderly and infirm in tow they would reach them in time to avoid a slaughter.

No, they were trapped, as had always been the captain's worst fear.

"Surrender the city, Captain. Beg for clemency. Pray that…"

"That what? That these soulless monsters will miraculously develop conscience and spare our lives?"

Faramir's tone was dripping with thick sarcasm and right away Maran knew that his commander was correct. Never before had the Orcs shown even a small hint of mercy, they were hardly likely to start now. They would sooner slaughter every man, woman and child than accept a surrender.

"So, what?" asked the lieutenant and Faramir felt the pressure of his decision weighing down upon him. Long experienced though he might have been in combat and command, the idea that all people deferred to him to know what was the best course of action still discomforted him. Perhaps it was not the best trait in one who was destined – or at least had been destined – to protect Gondor and its people.

Desperately, Faramir looked about himself. What could he do that would spare his people?

"Captain!"

Suddenly Faramir found himself on the ground, flat on his back with a sharp pain streaking down his arm from his shoulder. At first he could not comprehend what on earth had caused this change in situation. One minute he had been thinking upon their quandary and the next…

"Faramir!"

Maran bent to help his captain sit up then began looking to the wound caused by the projectile that had been effectively aimed at him from the seething mass of Orcs.

"It is not fatal," the man declared in relief before he took Faramir's arm to help him back up to his feet. "We must get you to the physicians though."

Despite the pain shooting all the way up his arm, Faramir bent to retrieve his dropped sword and protested, "No. I am needed here."

"You are no good to us…"

"Ensure the line holds," interrupted the captain, trying not to let his hurt be heard in his voice even though it threatened to become known to all in the vicinity. His people did not need to know that he was struggling, not while they required his unfettered strength to lead them through this most vicious battle.

With no small amount of reluctance, the lieutenant nodded his acceptance and then hurried away to ensure the order was carried out.

Faramir, determination burning brightly in his eyes, gripped his sword all the tighter and attempted to shove down the pain radiating ceaselessly down his arm. Battle would not wait for his recovery. So he grit his teeth and plunged back into the fray.

It proved to be a great mistake. Weakened as he was, and bearing the obvious signs of being high in the forces' chain of command, it made him irresistible prey for the Orcs. They flocked to him, fighting ferociously to reach him. Naturally, he soon found himself being protected somewhat by his fellow warriors, his faithful lieutenant included. It was dangerous. Taking the attentions of his soldiers away from the whole fight in order to guard him. The kinder thing to do would be to remove himself from the battle entirely. But that felt cowardly and Faramir, son of Denethor, was no coward.

Not long after this enlightened realisation, the inevitable transpired just as he'd feared it would. Separated for mere moments from his guard, Faramir found himself sparring with three particularly vicious creatures intent on exploiting the weaknesses fairly radiating from the injured man. Understandably, this usually strong, fearsome warrior, proved little match for the ferocious monsters.

Whilst engaged in an abnormally intricate swordfight with an Uruk, Faramir was distracted enough that another of Sauron's minions, a mere goblin, managed to get behind him and before he even registered what had happened a sharp pain snapped through his head, reverberating all the way down his neck, the force was so great.

He crumbled to his knees, just about managing to catch himself before he crashed onto his front and became entirely vulnerable.

"Faramir!"

His lieutenant's voice sounded so terribly distant. Too far away for help. Although his vision was horribly blurred, he could make out that none of the others were close enough anymore to come to his aid.

Realising that no salvation was imminent, Faramir looked up at the massive Uruk-hai looming over him. No weapon was in view but a murderous glint shone in evil yellow eyes. It was taking its time, savouring the moment of bringing down the Captain of Gondor. Never had Faramir prayed for death. His very life had been dedicated to preserving not just the lives of his people but his own life also; such was a warrior's way of life. All that effort, he believed, could not be in vain. He had done his best. He feared the unknown that now stretched out before him but he could do no more in this life. What would be would be. Still, boldly, he looked into the eyes of his slayer, strong and unyielding to the end. And if this was to be his ending, he would stubbornly stare his death in the face.

But what was that new emotion in the Uruk's eyes? Admiration, Faramir deduced with a jolt of surprise. A warrior's death, in the manner of Sauron's strong allies themselves, was to be esteemed by the one dealing the killing blow.

Weapon was raised. Bloodlust returned to discoloured eyes. A smile split the creature's face.

But then, as the son of the Steward awaited his demise, something changed in the demeanour of his killer. Shock replaced gruesome delight. The creature slowly lowered its weapon from where it had been raised and stared in amazement and no small amount of anger over Faramir's head. What it was looking at, Faramir did now know. He feared to turn his head and look. What could frighten an Uruk? Fear renewed now beat harder than ever in his chest.

However, the Uruk's expression changed once again, this time to utter incomprehension and when said monster suddenly crumpled to the ground, dead, Faramir suddenly whipped his head around and he too was stunned by what he saw.

**OIOI**

Everyone confined within the abandoned premise of some long since departed proprietor had heard the sounds of the battle from outside; it was impossible to miss given the previous silence that filled the city. Horrified that the city they had only just entered was under attack and may well fall to the Enemy, they had never felt more helpless locked in their prison. Trapped, they could do nothing but press their eyes to the thin cracks in the wooden panels boarding up the windows and hope for a glimpse or sound of something that might allude to how the Men of Gondor were faring against the interlopers.

By the time daylight had crept sluggishly over Gondor, all hopes of discovering what was occurring in the city disappeared entirely. The only thing they had been able to discern was that the lines of Men were breaking because Orcs were seen to run past them as they had not done before.

Understandably, none of the creatures paid any heed to the prisoners of the Humans.

Aragorn and his companions were just itching to get out and meet the scourge of Mordor for themselves on the battlefield. It was beyond frustrating to watch the merciless monsters making their way unhindered into the city and to the unprotected, helpless innocents who hid within.

Perhaps it had been foolish to think that the captain of this besieged city would give thought to the prisoners he'd met only that night. Legolas had reasoned that commanding his army would swallow up the majority of his attention. That had been little comfort to the others though. Surprisingly, it had been Aragorn who had been the most unsettled about the whole thing.

After hours, anything could be happening with the clashing forces. Only the fact that Osgiliath was not completely overrun by the Enemy indicated that the Humans were still just about holding their own. How long that could last, they did not know though.

"This is intolerable," stormed Aragorn in a flurry of activity as he turned from the window and stalked around the room in a great circle before he returned to where Legolas now stood calmly watching him. "We should be out there! We should be doing something!"

A calming hand on his shoulder soothed Aragorn's frustration somewhat. "I know that, but there is nothing we can do but wait."

Aragorn closed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh before bowing his head. He knew that the voice of reason by his side was right. Anger would not alter their fate.

So involved was Aragorn in tending to his broiling frustration that he did not even hear the noise of man feet in the distance growing closer to them.

"Aragorn!" called Janor suddenly in surprise, stepping away.

Lifting his head, Aragorn saw that all his men were backing away from where they'd been pressed against the wall watching the scene unfolding outside.

"What?"

He was answered by the door flying open with a great crash and a shower of splinters so great the force had been on the rotting wood. He might have expected Faramir or even an enraged Denethor. But it was neither.

"Eomer!"

"Pleased to see me?" grinned the Rohan man grimly.

Coming forward to grasp Eomer's arm in greeting, Aragorn smiled back, "Immensely."

Eomer took a moment to nod to the others then released Aragorn and drew his sword from its sheath at his side. He nodded then to those others who had come with him into the city – almost all their armed forces - and they stepped forward bearing the weapons taken from Aragorn and his companions when they had been taken captive. Aragorn took back Anduril gratefully and smiled his thanks to the commander of the Rohirrim. "Come. There are still plenty of the Enemy to fight. If you're up to it, that is."

Relief washed over Aragorn and he could not cover his smile. Killing the filth of Mordor would indeed help to relieve his frustration. Eomer turned and led the way out and the prisoners eagerly followed, crashing quickly down the uneven paving towards the sounds of battle, knocking down every Orc that they passed. None of the Shadow would get into the heart of the city now, not with the combined forces of Men forming a barrier against them.

Finishing the remains of the Orcs proved easy enough. With their numbers bolstered by the combined forces loyal to Aragorn, the creatures stood no chance against the Men; their endeavour to overwhelm the city now rendered folly. Every one that had launched an attack on the city soon lay slaughtered on the paved streets of Osgiliath. Their victory secured, the Men of Gondor began to tend to their wounded. Seeing that they struggled with the number of casualties, Eomer ordered his Rohirrim to help whilst Aragorn had the Rangers search the town for Faramir. Things had changed now. They had much to discuss in light of this new development.

When Faramir, guided by Tarsem and Janor, appeared though, his expression was thunderous and he apparently did not desire a rational conversation as Aragorn did.

"You lied to me!" he bellowed furiously when he was within shouting distance of the young man, disregarding the fact that not only had Aragorn and his people saved the Gondorian forces and innocents within the city, but also that he was surrounded by those loyal to the king returned.

If Aragorn was shocked by this accusation then he hid it well. He stood from where had had been crouched tending to the wounds of one of Gondor's fallen soldiers, straightening so that he appeared just as tall as the Captain. Of course, he knew of what Faramir spoke. During his account of how he'd made his way to the city, Aragorn had tactically left out the fact that his army were surreptitiously encamped just outside the city walls, close enough to have heard the Orc attack and, upon assessing that things looked dire for the warriors of Gondor, intervene.

"I understand your anger."

"Do you now?!" Faramir yelled unrelentingly. "Why did you not tell me the truth?"

"Because I knew you would react badly to the knowledge."

"The knowledge that you deceived me, that you surrounded my home with your soldiers? Of course I would react badly. Who would not?"

"Captain, we came here to work alongside you. I knew that if you thought that our forces were outside the city you would believe us to be too intimidating."

"So you lied! You think that instils trust?!"

"Perhaps I was mistaken. But I think not. I did what I had to for the Steward to heed my words. Had I mentioned my army here also then Denethor would have considered this a coup and would undoubtedly have chopped off my head without the hesitation he showed yesterday. My decision was sound considering how things ended up."

"I should lock you back up and throw away the key," growled Faramir in a low voice, still not entirely trusting all that he was being told.

Aragorn spared a glance to Janor and then said, "And need I remind you that my people just saved your town from ultimate ruin?"

Faramir appeared startled at this and he looked around himself. It was true. Everywhere Orcs and Uruk-hai lay dead in the streets and Men roamed here and there freely and it seemed no longer with any fear. The combined armies of the Rangers and Rohirrim by far outnumbered his own Men, he noticed. Should they wish it, Aragorn's allies could take control of Osgiliath by sheer force. He also had to concede that so far the men had made absolutely no move to do so. In fact, they appeared to actually be helping the Gondorian people in the wake of the battle they had aided in winning.

As if he was reading the Captain's mind, Aragorn assured, "We have healers amongst us; they will do whatever they can to help your people."

"I thank you for that," said Faramir, quieter now he'd started to listen to reason and had calmed.

Grey eyes raked down the Captain's dishevelled form then widened slightly when he saw the blood staining the man's shirt at his shoulder. "You are injured yourself, Faramir."

"Yes; in the battle." He pressed his hand to his shoulder, wincing as the pain that had been momentarily forgotten in the heat of battle and the exhilaration of the appearance of allies made itself known again. "It is minor."

"Please let our physician see to it. He is the best I have ever encountered."

"There is much to do about the city."

Gesturing around himself, Aragorn told the man, "It is being taken care of." When Faramir looked ready to protest again, Aragorn told Janor to fetch the healer Valon, hearing no further objections from the Captain of the army of Gondor.

**OIOI**

"Father, please, if you would just hear them out."

"I have heard all I wish to hear and I will speak no more on the matter."

"But…"

"Enough," Denethor's voice boomed even in the small room of his tavern-come-command post.

Even after all his thirty years of enduring his father's aloof demeanour and self-righteous rants, of being at the receiving end of that infamous temper, Faramir still flinched, hurt by the tone and words of his sire. He knew this reaction was to be expected though. Talking rationally to a man who seldom listened to reason if it meant causing harm to his fragile pride was perhaps foolish but Faramir felt compelled to do so all the same.

It had been two days since his soldiers had been rescued by the Rohirrim and the Dunedain and all of the newcomers, as well as their commanders and king, had been helpful beyond measure in the restoring and securing of the beleaguered city. They'd proven themselves thoroughly invaluable; tirelessly tending to the wounded, burning the rotten carcasses of the fallen Enemy invaders as well as organising amongst themselves constant watches and patrols around the borders of the town just in case of a second wave of attack. Given all that they had done, Faramir felt he owed it to them to try again with his stubborn father.

"Leave me, Faramir. I wish to speak of this no longer."

"They do not desire to supplant you; only to work with us. If you would just give them a chance…"

Denethor rose from his chair. At one time he would have looked magnificent performing such a threatening action but time had left him withered, lacking now in his old splendour. He looked like an old man, clinging onto the glories of his old life and seeking to keep just a while longer his power and potency. Still, despite his lack of physical intimidation, his eyes were dark and threatening with anger at his usually placid son's blatant disobedience and disregard for his commands.

"I will give that pretender nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing! The line of the Stewards will not fail with me. I will not be the weak link!"

How it hurt him to doubt his father and to speak of that doubt. Fealty was greatly valued by the House of the Stewards. It really was no wonder that his speaking out against that line angered his father.

Taking a deep breath, and in spite of his inherent reservations, Faramir ploughed on with his much-thought-about reasoning. "But, Father, are the Stewards not mere guardians of the throne and the Great Kingdom of Gondor, protecting it until the true King's return? Is that not what you always taught me of our duty to our realm? And if so, is not this Stewardship that you have helmed so valiantly, the most successful of them all, to precipitate the return of our rightful King?"

"Perhaps that was once so," Denethor sighed, feigning patience even though it was proving an ever greater challenge. "But this…"

"Aragorn," Faramir supplied with some hint of hope entering the speaking of the name before his father.

"Aragorn," ground out the Steward, who looked to be in considerable physical pain to even speak the foul name himself, "is not the true heir to our beloved Kingdom."

"How can you know this for sure?"

"There are some things, as appointed ruler of these lands, that one simply comes to know instinctively. And I know this not to be true." Denethor's aged features softened ever so slightly and he stood from his seat again as if that would put his nervy-looking son at ease. Smiling looked unnatural upon his weathered face so the Keeper of Gondor did not even attempt that ghastly motion. He did not wish to frighten his son. "Trust me in this matter, Faramir."

The Steward's voice was soft as he implored this but he also made it painfully clear that the decision had been made and the law laid down.

"Could I at least provide them with shelter?" Faramir asked, hoping that he could gain something for Aragorn and the army that followed him; they had come so far to reach Osgiliath and already done much to aid in her recuperation. "Please, they have helped greatly, Father."

Denethor considered for a moment. He did not like the notion of Aragorn remaining free in his city when his eyes seemed so firmly set on gaining the rule over Gondor. But he also had to concede that the Men had been most useful. Denethor was no fool in spite of his innate pride and he knew that at trying times one had to take advantage of the gifts brought upon a beleaguered kingdom.

"Very well," he replied after a while. "They may remain in the city."

Executing a formal bow as he had always done before his noble father, Faramir murmured, "Thank you, my Lord."

Upon leaving his father's chamber, the Captain took a round-about route back to where he'd left his and Aragorn's soldiers, taking the time to check on the citizens of Osgiliath. They'd been understandably rattled by how close the Orcs had gotten to the heart of their city and its innocents. Denethor would not deign to mingle amongst them if he could at all help it, but for a token appearance to silence their troubles about his being one of them. Contrary to what Denethor believed, it was not enough. Perhaps if Faramir showed his face then it would comfort them somewhat.

Indeed they were pleased to see him. Many of these people were families who had warriors under the Captain's command. They admired him, respected his desire to keep his men, their loved ones, safe.

They also understood that he had matters to attend to and so after he provided them with a quick update they let him go, grateful to know that for the time being they were safe once more under the care of their noble Captain.

"How are you feeling?" Valon called to Faramir as the man passed by the building posing as a temporary healing hall for the soldiers wounded in battle.

"Much better."

Faramir had never liked healers overly much. He respected their talents immensely, recognised that they were as invaluable in battle as any soldier, but he just did not care for them. Perhaps it was because the only times he ever visited them was when he or someone close to him was suffering. Nor did he like the halls of healing. They smelled unusual and everything seemed so dire within them. A warrior preferred action to such a skill.

"I am glad. What kind of first impression would I make of my Men if I failed you?" grinned the healer, looking up from where he was applying a fresh bandage to the gash on the arm of a soldier.

Faramir's smile was shaky and he tried to keep his eyes off the oozing wound. "Well, my impression of you is a good one so far if it comforts you at all."

"It does." Again, Valon raised his eyes, a knowing look entering them as he did so. "And your Lord? What is his impression?"

Bristling ever so slightly at what seemed like such a demanding question from a mere healer, Faramir straightened and said somewhat frostily, "You cannot blame him for his scepticism. His best interests lie with his people. Aragorn has not yet proven his worth sufficiently to him."

"And to you?"

At this, Faramir hesitated. He found his opinion divided. A part of him harboured a deep mistrust if not dislike of this man come to claim the Throne of Gondor for his own, not least because should he succeed then Faramir himself would be rendered powerless. Why would Aragorn allow him to lead the army when he possessed commanders with significantly more experience? Nor would he ever get to live up to his legacy. He'd never be Steward when the king returned.

But he liked Aragorn. He seemed a good man; kind and true. And really, was his pride enough to ignore the return of Isildur's heir?

Undecided, he deferred the healer's question for now and bid his farewells to Valon with no small amount of relief. He had much to think upon so he abandoned his search for Aragorn and his companions. Perhaps given some time the answer would simply come to him. Never before in his life had he been so torn, with no idea what to do: support Aragorn of the true line or be loyal to his father whom he knew fully well was riddled with imperfections as a leader.

There were few places of true peace and beauty in Osgiliath was rare but, knowing the city as he did, Faramir had found one. Close to the River Anduin there was a small bay, hidden from the city entirely. One could sit entirely undiscovered in quiet, looking over the river, beautiful in its way despite its harsh currents and polluted waters. The small waves lapping against the pebbles was soothing to watch. No one could find him when he came to this cove. He remembered coming to this exact place when as a child he had found himself a victim of his father's sharp tongue.

So, whenever the pressures of leadership got the better of him, he came here to think and reflect in private. Now he came to the river to work through what he would do next. It was quite a quandary.

**To Be Continued…**


	59. Estel

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**Thanks for the reviews and thanks to everyone who is reading this. Very much appreciated. And here's the next chapter for you I hope you enjoy it.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 59 – Estel**

Legolas stood at the window, looking out over the city. Even in the shadow of night, the city of Men was busy. Light shone all around, making it seem almost like the cities of old Legolas had known; bold, he thought, considering how many eyes must have even now been upon the city of Osgiliath. Lighting the city up in this manner must surely have made it a far easier target for the Enemy. For the sake of the mere comfort of light, it was a terrible risk to take and one that Legolas could not condone.

How different this place was to anywhere Legolas had encountered before since the beginning of the War, he mused as he watched people walking down the well-lit streets, engrossed in conversation, confident in the defences Faramir had erected around them. Even deserted, the Elven realms he had come across since the rule of the Dark Lord began had a kind of freedom about them. He felt like he belonged in them amongst the elegant structures and towering trees. They were elemental and that was what Legolas was used to, what he loved. But to be confined within a city of stone, Legolas found himself ill at ease. The stone structures towered around him, trapping him in. How odd, that the walls of Osgiliath should trouble him so. It seemed sad that he should find fighting the Enemy and travelling the wasted lands of Middle Earth more comforting than settling in a specific place surrounded by allies and as protected as was possible to be so close to Mordor. He doubted that his own people would even recognise him anymore. An Elf bound by duty to a Human, trying desperately to work amongst other Humans, living in a city made of stone in a world without sunlight or stars. It would seem so strange to the Elves of Mirkwood, even perhaps to those of Rivendell who had long dealings with the Edain and indeed had their blood flowing through their veins.

Sometimes, even after so many years in exile, he still yearned for the green splendour of Mirkwood or the soothing calm that always met him upon entering Imladris. Ever, the past gnawed at his heart, a constant reminder of that which had been forever lost to him.

Sighing deeply, Legolas braced himself against the cold stone sill. It was cold this night but he didn't mind. He would be no warmer beneath his blankets. Besides, he found that the cold brought him comfort. He was still capable of feeling something.

Aragorn had earlier settled himself amongst Jecha, the Dwarves and the Rangers around the fireplace in which they'd built up a roaring fire in one of the buildings Faramir had lent to his guests for the duration of their stay in Gondor. Together they had tasted the food of the Gondorians, drank the potent alcohol of the Rangers and spent the evening, full and merrily inebriated, laughing and exchanging stories, some more explicit than others and none of them appealing to Legolas.

He had stayed for a while, watching rather than participating. But soon it had become tiresome. Never had he before felt out of place amongst these Men he had travelled with but tonight his mood did not make him good company nor in the right temper to be around such a jovial gathering. When it had become too much to bear, he had slipped out unnoticed from the room to this spot at the glassless window where he could observe the lamp-lit city in peace. No one had come after him and although he was a little disappointed that Aragorn especially had not deigned to either notice his absence nor come to see the reason for his gloom, he was glad for the quiet. He preferred to be alone at times like this.

A while back, the noise from the next room had died down to be replaced by gentle snoring. Irritation gnawed at him when he thought of Aragorn's indulgence. The man, despite years of practice, did not deal all that well with the effects of alcohol. He would have a terrible headache come morning. Very often after a night like this he would be a misery to be around the day after. Legolas found such a demeanour in his ward extremely wearisome.

He'd never felt the inclination to imbibe such copious amounts of potent liquor. In fact, the taste disgusted him. To lose control of himself in the same manner as his Human companions brought Legolas no comfort. The thought actually terrified him at times. He liked to remain steadfast, in total command of his body and senses. At times, that was the only thing he felt like he did have control of. He would not relinquish that so readily.

"You're up late."

Legolas startled, turning suddenly to face the intruder on his thoughts. He was surprised to find the Captain of Gondor standing before him. It was the first time that he had seen the man out of his armour and he looked oddly well-presented given the state of the city and the fact that he'd spent the two weeks since they'd arrived in the kingdom working.

Realising that Faramir was looking at him with curiosity shining in blue-flecked grey eyes, Legolas cleared his throat and answered, "I couldn't sleep."

"Then you…you do sleep?" At Legolas' questioning expression, Faramir elucidated, "Elves. You sleep as we do?"

"In the same manner, for the most part, yes."

A blush crept across Faramir's cheeks at the Elf's rather tart answer. "You must think me terribly ignorant," he nevertheless flustered for it was true that he knew very little of the mythical creatures the tales of old occasionally alluded to and he had always been of a rather curious nature.

Legolas smiled as softly as he could manage to ease the man's discomfort then corrected, "Actually, I admire those who search for knowledge. Aragorn is much the same." Legolas' smile widened affectionately at the mention of his charge's constant stream of questions during his youth. It had driven him to distraction at the time but now that it was missing he found that he missed that aspect of his ward. "He was always eager to learn."

"How old was he when he came into your care?"

"Nine. But a child."

"Did you know who he was when you took guardianship of him?"

"His father told me on his deathbed."

"That's quite a burden to take on."

"Yes. More than I realised at the time."

"Do you regret it?"

"Taking on Aragorn's care?" At Faramir's nod, Legolas answered, "At first, I confess I did. For many years I thought I had made a dreadful mistake but…I do not regret it now."

Faramir drew in a deep breath and moved cautiously to the window where Legolas stood. The Elf did not withdraw but turned to the view that the Captain's gaze had drifted to. "I wish I could be so certain."

He sounded confused, pained. Legolas could tell that he was struggling with his decision and was frustrated by that doubt. The Elf understood that emotion all too well.

"It is understandable that you have misgivings. Any sane person would have."

"It is not pride or jealously, you know."

Legolas nodded softly, folding his arms neatly across his chest. "I believe you."

"There is much at stake. I must be certain."

They fell into silence, Faramir thoughtful and Legolas dubious. He wanted to help Faramir make up his mind but he didn't want the man to feel pressured. That might just scare him off. Delicate as the situation was, he decided against interfering. So he remained quiet, giving the Captain time to mull. At least Faramir no longer seemed quite so wary or skittish around the newcomers; indeed he had ventured willingly into the quarters that had been provided them by the Steward, however reluctantly.

"Is he a good man?"

"Excuse me?" Legolas found himself startled from his musings once again as Faramir's voice broke the hush.

"Aragorn." The man was looking imploringly at Legolas, still seeking his answers. "He's a good man?"

A smile, the first for many days, spread across Legolas' face, tender and certain at the same time. "Yes. He is the best man that I have ever known. Honourable, kind, brave, selfless."

"All good qualities."

"I know what you are risking, what you have already risked, for us. Your whole life has been turned upside down overnight, your future irrevocably changed. It must be…disconcerting."

"To say the least," agreed Faramir immediately.

"But Aragorn is good of heart, sensible of mind. Give him the chance to prove that to you. You will not regret it."

Faramir bowed his head, simultaneously releasing a long breath. Somehow, now he felt even less certain. Legolas' words sounded truthful enough but then it was common knowledge that he was the supposed King's guardian. Of course he would be biased in Aragorn's favour. Confusion muted any further questions for the time being. Legolas proved to be quite a tolerant thinking companion. Of course, Faramir knew that he had his own agenda; he was on Aragorn's side, wanted the young man crowned King, but he did not pressure overly. He stood at Faramir's side, still and silent, awaiting the man's decision if he decided to give it this night. And if not, then he would remain patient, waiting, as if that was what he did best in his life. Faramir decided that Legolas would be a very good guardian; patient and understanding. Aragorn was lucky to have such a steady guide in the world.

Peace in Osgiliath seldom lasted any length of time and tonight its curse proved itself once more.

The silence of the street was shattered by a pained wail from close by. Faramir immediately drew his sword, still at his side despite his otherwise casual attire, looking about for any potential threat that had caused the scream. Legolas, on the other hand, had spun around and raced through the open doorway into the next room. He knew precisely where the cry had originated.

Others in the building from which the cry had originated had been woken but they all looked around themselves, dazed from sleep and too much alcohol still lingering in their systems, not sure what exactly was going on. Legolas went straight to where Aragorn laid on the floor, writhing and crying openly even as he slept. Dropping to his knees, the Elf took Aragorn's shoulder and shook it to wake the young man from his tortured dreams. Aragorn woke almost instantly, eyes snapping open as another ragged cry was ripped from his lips against his will.

Legolas did not even have time to enquire after his ward's well-being before he had Aragorn's arms wrapped around his neck and the boy's face buried in his shoulder. It was by no means the first time that Legolas had comforted his ward in the wake of such a nightmare. Over the years, it had become an almost regular occurrence, one that he had become quite adept at dealing with. Still, it was always hard to see Aragorn in that way, perhaps even more so as he developed from a boy into a man.

Aragorn's hands gripped the back of Legolas' jacket tightly, almost painfully; he had no intention of letting go anytime soon. The memories of his disturbed sleep haunted him and Legolas was the only one who could bring comfort. Meanwhile, Legolas held his ward in return, rubbing his trembling back in reassurance.

Deep, heaving sobs came from the young man even as he was comforted by his guardian. This concerned Legolas. What had happened to upset him so much?

"Shh, it's all right," hushed Legolas, stroking the boy's hair back in an attempt to get a view of Aragorn's face but he was pressed so close that it proved impossible so Legolas instead resumed his previous comforting.

Jecha, who had been standing staring in open bewilderment since being woken was broken from his shock by bright blue eyes that had suddenly turned on him. Legolas' imploring gaze spoke volumes. Shaking his head, Jecha looked around himself to find the others staring in exactly the same manner as he himself had been drawn into doing.

"Hey, let's…" Jecha attracted the attention of the others and nodded in the direction of the door, indicating that they should leave. No doubt Aragorn would wish for privacy. He knew that if it were him being cradled, helpless and emotional in another's arm, he would not want to be observed by gawking men. Sonal left immediately, showing, it seemed little concern for the young king. When, however, some of his men hesitated, torn between curiosity and sympathy for what they were witnessing, the Easterling prompted a little more clearly, "Come on. Out. Now."

This certainly jolted everyone into action and they filed out, indiscreetly peering at the pair over their shoulders as they left. Seeing the young man named as their king reduced to a sobbing wreck in the arms of his usually stoic guardian held a kind of grim fascination for them. It was a sight seldom seen. Particularly as it looked like Legolas was also distressed.

Finally, Jecha also left, taking Faramir, who had been loitering in the doorway after he'd tailed Legolas inside, by the arm and tugging him away. Behind him, he closed the door, leaving Legolas and Aragorn in privacy where he was confident that Aragorn would confide in his most trusted friend what had upset him so.

"That happen often?" Faramir asked as the well-dressed Easterling moved away from the door.

Dark eyes, filled with concern, turned on the Captain. "Too often of late."

With that, Jecha followed his companions outside into the cool night air, leaving Faramir to wonder at the kindness and the loyalty that this young king inspired in those who followed him. The devotion to his well-being, body, heart and mind was rather inspiring and Faramir felt a stab of jealousy for he had never enjoyed such loyalty and love, either from his people, friends or family.

The closest he had ever felt to another person had been his brother and even that had been lost years ago. One of the frequent but devastating Orc attacks on Osgiliath had robbed him of his brother, the people's champion, Boromir and left him at the mercy of his stern, grieving father and very much alone in the world. He wished above all else that he had someone like Legolas there for him. Sometimes, he wanted to curl up in the arms of someone beloved, trusted, and cry his heart out like a little boy. But that was not to be. He was alone. He resented Aragorn a little for having what he had always been denied.

**OIOI**

It took a long while for Legolas to calm his ward down sufficiently to ask what had caused such a reaction in the first place. It took longer still to actually get the answer but it wasn't what Legolas had expected.

"It burns," Aragorn gasped, pulling back from his guardian in such a sudden movement that the Elf instinctively reached out to grab him in case he attempted to run from the house. But Aragorn made no attempt to bolt but rather yanked the buttons of his jacket and shirt open to lay his hand upon his pale skin as if in pain.

Legolas gasped when he saw what Aragorn spoke of. A deep red burn marred his thin chest. He could think of no instance where his ward could have sustained such an injury though. Their brief skirmish with the Orcs earlier had resulted in no wounds on the young king – Jecha had made a point of making sure of that.

Grabbing the man's hand suddenly, Legolas dragged it away from the skin to get a better look at the burn.

"How did this happen?" he demanded when seeing it offered him no clues as to its source.

His voice still trembling, Aragorn explained, "I dreamed." Eyes brimming with fear and tears, the young man abruptly reached for Legolas' arm, holding it so tightly that the Elf actually winced at the strength in the thin fingers. "The Darkness took me away, took you away from me. And I was shrouded from the Light. I was all alone. And I saw. It burned."

Still Legolas did not understand and with furrowed brow he asked, "What burned?" He was growing increasingly concerned by Aragorn's obvious confusion and disorientation.

"_It_." Aragorn laid his trembling hand this time over the breast pocket of his battered old jacket. "He sees it. Sees me."

Understanding suddenly dawned over Legolas and in one swift almost desperate movement he took Aragorn's jacket by the lapels, demanding, "Take this off." He helped Aragorn shrug out of his coat and then threw it hard over to the other side of the room. He should have anticipated that the closer they came to Mordor and the Dark Lord Sauron the more potent the Lord's Ring's power would become in its effect on the bearer. He was loath the touch the thing itself – its power was far beyond him – but he felt it best to remove it from Aragorn's person whilst it was still possible to do so.

Far from looking relieved, Aragorn actually looked greatly pained at the loss and he ran his hand over his forehead as if being parted from the thing that had hurt and frightened him so much in the first place upset him greatly.

"We have to clean this," Legolas referred to the angry-looking skin, marred at the point where the Ring of Power had rested. Glancing around, he found Aragorn's bag and from it retrieved the man's flask. When he went to apply the cloth he had dampened to the damaged area on Aragorn's chest though, the young king yelped and scampered backwards away from his well-meaning guardian.

"Stay away!" Aragorn exclaimed in horror, eyes wide and for the first time around Legolas distrustful.

Alarmed by the abrupt change, Legolas sat back, hands raised in the air so as not to appear at all threatening. "Aragorn, I am only trying to help," he said softly, hiding his shock and concern well behind a mask of understanding he did not feel. Slowly, he crawled towards his ward who was alternating between staring wildly at Legolas and gazing longingly at his jacket laid on the other side of the room in an untidy heap where the Elf had cast it. He did not attempt escape as the Elf approached him again.

When he was close enough, Legolas reached out and took his ward loosely by the arm. Aragorn startled at the contact. Grey eyes, shining with fear, focused more intently upon his guardian.

"Let me help you," whispered Legolas calmly. Slowly raising his hand, he laid it palm down against Aragorn's tear-streaked cheek. "All right?"

Aragorn swallowed thickly, his shaking body relaxing slowly as sense returned through the haze of confusion. Suddenly, Legolas did not seem the enemy as he had a moment previously. Light replaced the darkness in his mind and he closed his eyes for a second to further clear his head of the thoughts swimming dizzyingly around. Soft eyes, shining blue and clear with sympathy, watched all this play out with patience and understanding. The pale face before him suddenly appeared blurred and hot tears spilled down Aragorn's cheeks.

Shakily, he asked, "Legolas? What…What happened?" He felt cold, shaken; more so than he had ever felt before. The hot, burning desire fuelled by anger and possessiveness had subsided but had left in its place an empty cavity in his heart. He felt almost…bereft.

With caution, just in case his ward was not entirely himself just yet, Legolas shifted closer still, finally reaching out to touch Aragorn with his fingertips.

"It's all right," the Elf whispered in reassurance. He shuffled to sit by Aragorn's side and slid his arms over the young man's shoulders to pull him close. Without hesitation, Aragorn laid his head upon his guardian's shoulder and closed his eyes once more as he let the tears fall freely.

Legolas held his rattled ward close as he shook, trembling from fear and emotion as he sought to make sense of what strange thing had just transpired within him. Thirty-five years of age was so terribly young in the eyes of one of the Firstborn. To Legolas, who had walked Arda for thousands of years, Aragorn was still but a child, little changed from the boy he had rescued on the Old Forest Road. And yet Aragorn had changed so much and so rapidly. He had grown into a confident adult. True, there had been plentiful hurdles along the way, none of which Legolas could honestly claim he'd been prepared for. But now here was his ward, the child he had effectively raised, getting ready to lead an army of Men whilst carrying with him an immense burden forged at the very heart of Darkness and that the Dark Lord coveted relentlessly above all other prize or treasure.

Pride swelled in Legolas' heart but disappointment also – not in Aragorn but rather in himself. He could do so little to share the load. It hurt that he was reduced to such a useless creature in the presence of his ward.

After a long while, Aragorn's tears ceased and he pulled away from his mentor, his cheeks flushed pink. He heaved a long breath then offered Legolas a smile that was too shaky to be seen as anything other than false.

Offering the young man a returning smile of his own, Legolas used the damp cloth to wipe away tears from Aragorn's face.

"We need to clean this wound," the Elf said softly, referring to the burn decorating Aragorn's chest. As the man's fingers delicately ghosted over the reddened flesh as if in interest, Legolas asked, "Should I get Valon? He is trained as a physician and the Men might feel more comfortable knowing that you have been looked at by someone who knows what they're doing." Jecha in particular was known for being protective over the King's well-being; Legolas was sure that if the Easterling suspected him of not doing the right thing by Aragorn then he would be most displeased.

Before Legolas could get to his feet to call for the healer, Aragorn snatched his hand to keep him from leaving. "No, I don't want anyone else in here. Please." Imploring grey eyes fixed Legolas with a pleading stare that both knew was impossible to resist. "Please, I trust you to help me and none other."

Indeed, Legolas had never been able to deny that look and he couldn't now. So, nodding his consent, he sat back down, once again retrieving the flask of water.

The injury was not bad, although it looked red and sore. Aragorn made not one sound as Legolas cleaned the burn although he couldn't hide the occasional flinch. Mostly, he simply watched his guardian's deft hands working.

"I saw him."

Legolas looked up sharply from what he was doing at the quiet, quivering voice piercing the silence. "Him?" Of course, he knew exactly to whom Aragorn was referring.

"Yes. He was rimmed with flame. He looked right at me with-with deep blue eyes. Otherworldly."

"It was a dream, Aragorn."

"But it felt real." His fingers absently traced the edges of the burn again and his eyes darkened as he remembered. "It was real; just like before."

"You think the Dark Lord has entered into your dreams?"

"Yes."

Legolas frowned as realisation came to him. "This has happened to you before!"

"Yes." Aragorn nodded, expression turning to one of guilt.

"For how long have you dreamed of him?"

"A while. A couple of months."

"Months?" In truth, Legolas was surprised that his ward had kept something so important from him all this time. "That long?" Aragorn's eyes lowered again and despite the blatant look of remorse in them, Legolas felt compelled to ask, forcing calm, "Why did you not say something?"

"I was afraid."

"Of telling me?"

Aragorn shook his head. "Of what I saw."

"What have you seen?"

"I have been dreaming of him, of his fort in the Black Lands. He-He calls to me, beckons to me to come to him."

"Come to him?"

With a nod, Aragorn continued, gaining confidence now that the first revelation had been spoken, "To join him, to merge with the forces of Shadow. And I…" He swallowed thickly, fearing to speak the words that weighed so heavily on his mind. Ciaran had spoken of a similar thing when he had looked into the Seeing Stone and he'd been equally terrified and unwilling to speak of what he'd experienced. But he continued anyway. "I was tempted – in my dreams. I went to him. I was drawn to the Shadow. Ciaran spoke of feeling the same way when he looked into the Seeing Stone." Desperate grey eyes rose to search those of his guardian for reassurance. Clearly, Aragorn did not see in the Elf what he longed for and Legolas started when the boy suddenly lurched forward at him, hands grasping his own hands and holding him with painful fierceness. "Please. I am sorry. Forgive me, please!"

Aragorn bent forwards until his forehead was pressed tight against Legolas' knees; he held his stunned guardian, shuddering as he awaited a reply.

So surprised was Legolas by this unexpected display that for a long while he could think of nothing to do or say. He simply watched his quivering ward dissolve before him. When sense finally did return to him, the truth of what Aragorn had confessed hit him full force and he gasped, his eyes seeking out the jacket he had desperately tossed aside earlier. What had the seemingly ignorant Arathorn cursed his innocent son with? Had he known when he passed on that seemingly innocuous band of gold to his child what fate it would entail to carry it? Had he known that he was condemning Aragorn to this torment?

No matter what the answers to these questions, the truth remained the same. Aragorn was burdened with this great evil and it was, in spite of all his strength, preying on the weaknesses of his ancestry and slowly destroying him, body and soul. And Legolas was, once more, rendered useless.

What could he say now? What reassurance could he offer that was not false? Perhaps he had gotten away with reassuring lies in the past but things had changed now. He could not be untruthful with the King. He had vowed not to be.

"Child…" Legolas closed his eyes, swallowed down his own fears and doubts as he made an attempt to build up enough courage for his ward to cling onto. 'Child'. No longer could he refer to Aragorn thusly. His young ward had grown into a fine man and was now transforming into a good King, even if he himself could not see it. So, he started again, only to almost immediately get cut off. "Your Majesty…"

"No!" Aragorn's head shot up so abruptly that Legolas had to recoil or receive a bang to the head. "No, not you. Please. No 'Majesty' from you, Legolas. Please."

Legolas' face softened into understanding and to placate him he laid his hand on Aragorn's arm.

"Aragorn," he corrected himself softly, tenderly brushing the man's hair from his face where it had fallen untidily. "You must calm yourself."

"He's watching me!"

"No. He cannot be." Grey eyes wildly met blue again, ever seeking certainty in the steady gaze, and Legolas forced a smile. "There is much to fear indeed in your appointed task, but not that. Please, trust me as you once did and heed my words. He is not watching you."

Aragorn nodded earnestly. "I do trust you, Legolas. More than ever."

"Then also trust that I will not let you come to any harm this night. Now you must rest." He buttoned up Aragorn's shirt for him as the man's hands were still shaking too much to do anything useful. "Come now, return to sleep for a time."

"I do not think I can."

"You must. There will be much to do tomorrow and you must be well rested for it."

Aragorn looked down at his dishevelled appearance and chuckled humourlessly. "What must these people think of me?"

"You have convinced every Man you have met so far of your true heart. Gondor shall be no different, I am certain. It will just take more time."

Embarrassed all of a sudden by the tears still wet upon his cheeks, Aragorn swiped at them in anger. "I envy you."

"How so?" Legolas enquired, his head cocked to one side in question, even as he helped Aragorn on with his own jacket. Having no desire to touch the one that bore the Ring of Power, Legolas decided that it was a worthy sacrifice to give up his own coat to Aragorn, especially as the young man still shivered.

"How is it that you are always so certain of everything now? I do not recall you being so when we first met on the road."

"Well," Legolas shrugged as he buttoned up the coat, only slightly too large on the slighter man, "you have taught me much in the intervening years."

For a moment, Aragorn gazed critically at his guardian in an attempt to gauge his seriousness, then he broke into a wide grin. "What could I possibly have taught you? Are your race not supposed to be endlessly wise? Or so Erestor informed me many times while we rested in Rivendell."

"Yes, well, Erestor has been wrong countless times before," the Elf muttered with a bitterness for the stern Elf they had left behind years ago in Imladris that made Aragorn laugh outright. "In this instance, I believe that you have been the one imparting the wisdom upon me."

His smile fading at the sincerity in his guardian, Aragorn asked, "How so?" It was not for ego that he asked this but rather for reassurance.

"Have you not chosen the way here? Have you not brought together factions of Men who would otherwise never have given each other a chance? These are no small feats, Aragorn. You should be proud."

Aragorn was already shaking his head. "Anyone could have done the same."

"Not everyone bears the blood of Kings."

"Blood means nothing."

"But strength…That is a rare gift for one born in the broken world of Darkness. Before I met you, I confess I had none. Not even in the final days of Mirkwood." He smiled wanly. "You see, Aragorn, you did what I could not. You are standing up for what is right and just. All those Wise could not get as far as you have done in this quest for freedom. And you have the Dark Lord scared. How can you belittle such great achievements?"

Legolas' voice was quiet and sincere as ever and yet Aragorn remained unconvinced. "What if it is all for nothing?"

"It will not be."

"You can't know that. We have already lost so much. So many Men have died."

"They sacrificed themselves willingly for a cause they believe in. Right or wrong, successful or not, that has to be respected."

"Is that what I am too? A sacrifice?" He wished his voice could have sounded steadier as he said this, wished he could state with honesty that he did not fear death at the hands of the Shadow, and yet he could not. He did fear it with his every waking moment – and now it even followed him into his dreams.

Legolas' memory was thrown back to Elrond's darkened chamber in Rivendell. The Lord of Imladris had referred to Aragorn thusly even then. A sacrifice. He had demanded an explanation for the coldness of Legolas' decision to lead this unsuspecting man into the Land of Fire to meet with his inevitable death. Even then, Legolas had known that the end was inevitable. And yet, he had always denied that truth, even from himself. Too painful the truth would always prove to be when Aragorn was concerned.

"No," he finally answered. "No, you are not a sacrifice, Aragorn. You are a warrior, a soldier of the Light. Of that, you should be proud. It is a noble thing."

"Death is noble? Your vision is skewed."

"Now, that I cannot argue," smiled Legolas, also making Aragorn smile in turn.

"So, what am I to do then? Carry on? Go through with our plan in spite of everything?"

"Yes. We will get Denethor to change his mind. Old men set in their ways can be persuaded. We will do so and with the might of Gondor behind us, we will march upon the lands of Mordor and both of us will face that which we fear."

"Our deaths?"

Grey eyes were dark with fear that Aragorn was not ashamed was shining through. Only a fool, Legolas thought, would be unafraid at the prospect of meeting head on the vast armies of Mordor and the Dark Lord himself.

"Or not. Perhaps we will both live through it."

Aragorn shook his head and asked, "When did you suddenly become to positive?"

"Someone must balance out your negativity. Such is the way of the world." They shared a lacklustre smile then Legolas said softly, "You will sway the Steward. That will count for much. Already Faramir is coming around to our way of thinking and the people of Gondor seem to respect him – between you and me, far more than they do Denethor."

"And what am I supposed to do?"

His eyes and expression remaining hearteningly soft, Legolas said quietly, "Have faith – in yourself and in those around you. Many already love you, Aragorn. Trust that they will be at your side even through the times of darkness."

"Faith? That's it? That's your solution to all this uncertainty?"

"You would be surprised at its power, Aragorn."

"I'd prefer a solid, fool-proof weapon," the man said dryly, only partially jesting.

"You are a powerful weapon in yourself, you know."

Meeting clear blue eyes, so full of kindness and confidence, Aragorn frowned and asked, "How's that?"

"The Shadow fears you, Aragorn, not because of any weapon you possess or any ally you have accumulated but because of what you have come to represent. Freedom. You travel the lands, unhindered, undeterred by the agents of the Shadow who constantly conspire to stop you. Few others can claim that and so boldly defy the will of Darkness. Sauron is afraid of you because of what you inspire in others."

"What do I inspire?" Aragorn asked, his voice shuddering as he spoke.

A small smile tugged at Legolas' lips although his eyes darkened at the same time. In a whisper, he spoke in his native tongue.

"Estel."

"What does that mean?"

"Hope, Aragorn. You bring your people hope."

Dipping his head, Aragorn shrugged despairingly. "I don't know if that's enough." Such a small advantage was hardly encouraging, not when one considered the might of Mordor.

Legolas' hand under his chin encouraged Aragorn to lift his head back up to find that the Elf was serene again. "It is who you are. And it is worth much."

His guardian was trying to help, Aragorn knew. But these fine words of encouragement were not what he needed right then. Some instinctive part of him, held on to since childhood, ached for comfort. For the first time in many long years, Aragorn wanted his father. Strong, warm arms that conveyed love and understanding, unequivocal devotion and care, that had nothing to do with his status or future, that would wrap him in a hug and hold him until the demons and fear had left him for good. For all his enviable traits, Legolas had never quite possessed this parental one towards him. Of course, the Elf could provide comfort when needed but never in the way of a father, never in the way of Arathorn.

Wiping at his wet eyes, Aragorn whispered wearily, "I'm tired." He felt Legolas' gaze burning into him expectantly but he could not stand to meet or acknowledge it just now. So, he kept his own eyes averted, partly in embarrassment.

After a long moment, Legolas relinquished his stare and laid his hand on Aragorn's shoulder, noting how the man jolted slightly at the touch.

"Of course. You should rest." He looked around the room, at the dark fire, the rumpled jackets and blankets left behind by the previous occupants. He took care to ignore the jacket in the corner. Finally, his gaze came to rest once more upon his young ward, still downcast. "Do you think you could sleep now?"

"Yes."

"Lie down then." Legolas shifted out of the way as Aragorn laid himself out on the floor, making sure he was faced away from the Elf at his side. Trying his hardest not to be hurt by this sudden and unexpected dismissal, Legolas took up Aragorn's discarded blanket and placed it carefully over him. "Do you want me to stay for a while?"

"No."

Uncertain of what exactly he had said wrong, Legolas kept his silence at the snub. He would do what Aragorn wished and leave him be.

Heaving himself to his feet, Legolas offered, "Sleep well." The man ignored him completely this time, merely shrugging his blanket over him. Clearing his throat softly, Legolas tried not to feel offended. Aragorn had much on his mind and he meant no real harm. "Goodnight then." Despite Aragorn's coldness towards him, Legolas could not help himself reminding the young man, "I'll be outside if you need me." How could he abandon his charge simply because of petty irritation? He would ever be at Aragorn's disposal, he realised. Just as it should be.

Quiet feet took him to the door but he came to a halt before he could step outside. His eyes, that had been so very careful when sweeping over the room earlier, came instinctively to rest upon Aragorn's jacket laid crumpled and forgotten in the corner. Whilst Legolas knew that the fateful trinket contained within did not compel him as it did its unwitting owner, he still felt its power tugging at his senses. The power frightened him, that he would have freely admitted to anyone who thought to ask. He felt it pulling at him. But he would not be tricked by it. The Ring, forged by Sauron himself was allied to the Dark Lord alone. It had proven itself to be treacherous, corrupting and ruining to all others who sought to claim it. The Elves were wise to this, having learned from their own past mistakes and those of the less fortunate Second Born.

Forcefully, he pushed aside the longing and yet, almost of their own accord, his feet took him to the corner and he'd bent to snag the jacket by the collar before his brain even registered the movements. All the time, his eyes remained fixed upon the pocket where it rested. Thrumming through his mind, his proximity increasing the potency of its draw, he heard the call, felt the thick, dark magic that accompanied the innocuous-looking band of gold.

Fingers, shaky and moving without conscious thought, idly inched towards the pocket.

"Leave it."

Aragorn's voice snapped through the throbbing power in the air, startling Legolas so much that he physically jumped away from the jacket. He spun around to find suspicious grey eyes watching him, accusation shining in them. He realised why a moment later when he comprehended that in his hand now clutched the young man's jacket. Shocked that he had done something and been so utterly unaware of it, he opened his fingers to let the garment fall to the ground.

"I…" He shook his head, although it already felt much clearer for being disturbed. Briefly meeting dark, distrustful eyes, Legolas sharply turned on the spot and left the room, slamming the door forcefully closed behind him, not on Aragorn, but rather on that _thing_.

The Elf did not pause in the front room to answer the questions of the waiting Men. He blustered past them, shoving through the door, past surprised guards posted there to watch the strangers. Out into the fresh air, where he drew in deep breaths, filled his lungs and waited for the chill of the night to clear his fogged mind.

Despite his sudden appearance, the guards kept their distance. So long as the Elf made no threat, they had been instructed not to stop him or any of the others.

After taking a moment, Legolas looked back at the house. Lights shone inside and he heard soft voices. The curious men were discussing what had just happened; maybe Faramir was demanding answers. Legolas knew that he should probably be in there providing them – they needed the Captain's trust – but he could not bring himself to return.

A cold shiver ran down of his neck and he raised his hand to investigate and found sweat coating his skin. With another visible shudder, he wiped at his brow with his sleeve.

What a terrible thing could reduce him to this wretched creature, trembling and frightened, hiding from not just this great evil but from the ward that needed him.

The door to the house opened and then was pushed closed and Legolas heard footsteps he instantly recognised to be Jecha's approaching.

"Legolas!"

Jecha's voice sounded loud in the hush of the night, cracking through the haze of Legolas' mind.

In no mood for an argument, Legolas raised his hand. "Not now."

"Yes, now! What happened? Is he all right?"

Keeping his back to the man, Legolas drew in another deep breath, still trying to clear his mind of the fog. "He's fine."

"Fine? That's it?"

"What more would you like me to say? He had a nightmare. But he is settled now."

"Faramir is asking questions."

Legolas stepped away from the house and onto the road. "Answer them, then," he replied simply, dismissively.

"Where are you going?" Jecha called, torn between following the clearly disturbed Elf and remaining close to his young king.

Finally, Legolas turned to look back at the Easterling, confident that his mask of calm had been successfully restored after the momentary slip. "I'll be back before Aragorn wakes again," he called back.

"Legolas! Where are you going?"

Once more, Legolas ignored the question, just kept on walking. Part of him wanted to simply walk off all his excess energy but he also had a specific destination in mind. Doing both would at least put his mind at ease.

Thankfully, the guards did not follow him. The streets were dark and quiet but Legolas didn't mind that at all. He did not fear being alone as Men seemed to. Over the decades, he'd suffered enough solitude for it to become the norm for him. Nor did he fear monsters in the night that Men were so troubled by. Sauron was no fool. If he was going to attack the city of Osgiliath then it would be in the form of a mass invasion, not the odd skulking beast prowling the streets picking off residents one by one. They would see any attack long before it came. And any stray creature wandering the paths of Osgiliath could be taken care of with a couple of swift strokes from sharp blades and well-practiced moves.

Still, Legolas thought that he'd prefer to face all the legions of Mordor than have to return to the room where Aragorn remained.

**To Be Continued…**


	60. Denethor, Steward of Gondor

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thank you to all of you who have reviewed and, of course, to all you silent readers out there. I hope you like this new chapter.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 60 – Denethor, Steward of Gondor**

His destination was easy to find even though he didn't really know what he was looking for. It was bathed in torchlight. Guards, all fully armed and standing strictly to attention, stood at the doorway. A dead giveaway. They straightened further when they registered Legolas' approach for the Elf made no attempt to conceal his coming.

As he strode boldly up to the door, the guards, young men who looked decidedly nervous that a confrontation might be upcoming, drew their swords from their sheaths.

Legolas came to a halt just before them. He could probably force his way through; he had centuries experience on them. But he went for diplomacy instead. He'd shed enough blood in his life. To harm innocents just doing their sworn duty in protection of their land was not in his nature.

"I must speak with your Steward," Legolas announced formally.

Uncertainly, the two men glanced at one another. Of course they had heard the rumours of the Elf come amongst the Men of Osgiliath and although neither had ever actually seen him before, that this was said Elf was unmistakeable. Fear and curiosity warred within them and for a moment they simply stared at him – long blonde hair, tall, clear blue eyes, slightly pointed ears. He allowed their scrutiny.

Eventually, one of the guards answered bravely, "Lord Denethor commanded he was not to be disturbed this night."

"It is important I see him. Tonight."

"I'm not sure." The man looked again to his companion on sentry duty but the young man merely shrugged.

"Go inside and tell him that Prince Legolas wishes to speak with him about King Aragorn," Legolas commanded, using his most powerful stern voice and dropping both impressive titles in the hope they might sway the guards. Certainly, he knew it would awaken Denethor sufficiently.

It may have been out of practise, his diplomatic side, but it worked well enough on the two gormless guards. They shared another look with each other and then the man who had been doing all the speaking returned his gaze to Legolas and nodded once. As he went up to the door, the young man looked decidedly nervous, of what lay inside now rather than of the late night visitor. Denethor apparently did not like being disturbed in the middle of the night. He glanced over his shoulder at Legolas as if hoping that the Elf might have changed his convictions and left them in peace.

Legolas, however, stood there expectantly, waiting. He would not leave until he'd had an audience with the Steward of Gondor, that much he made perfectly clear to the guardsmen.

So, the young guard rapped on the door and entered without waiting for the invitation.

A moment later, Legolas heard yelling from inside. Denethor was not happy at the disturbance. Legolas wondered if he had been sleeping inside. If so, then leaving the lamps and fires burning was a terrible waste of resources, the Elf mused although he had to confess at not being overly surprised. Denethor did not exactly seem to him to be a sensible man. A bottle smashed against one of the walls, followed by yet more shouting from inside. Hurried footsteps sounded across the creaking floorboards and then the guard returned hurriedly out of the door, looking decidedly ill at ease.

"The Steward will see you," he nevertheless announced with all the dignity he could muster while also sending Legolas a 'rather-you-than-me' look. He stood back off to one side so that the Elf could pass through the door and into the old tavern Denethor used as his base and home.

Legolas was not afraid of angry words or flying bottles, so he stepped past the two guards without hesitation and through the doorway.

Fires burned both in the entrance hall and the adjoining room where the Steward sat at the end of the long, battered conference table Legolas had last seen crowded with the elderly men of the Council of Gondor. On top of the table candles burned brightly, lighting the room. The Steward, it seemed, had been asleep for he wore a creased white shirt, loose trousers, no shoes and a hastily thrown on black robe. Legolas felt a prick of satisfaction that he had at least disturbed Denethor's peace this night.

"You…" Denethor pointed one gnarled finger in Legolas' direction; the other hand occupied holding a half-empty bottle of wine. He got to his feet rather unsteadily, glaring at Legolas with dark eyes, watery in the candlelight. Apparently, his sleep had been induced by alcohol and he had gone straight back to the pastime upon being woken. "It is gone midnight."

"Long gone," confirmed Legolas, staring unblinkingly at the Steward. Crossing his arms over his chest, the Elf said sternly, "You are drunk."

Denethor looked down in an affronted manner at his bottle clutched in his hand. "I am not."

"So, this is what stands between the true king and the throne."

The Steward plonked the bottle down on the table, splashing a little of the red liquid upon the wood, then fell back into his chair. He laughed drunkenly, hands lying flat on the table in front of him.

"Your king will _never_ sit on my throne."

"He is your king too. And you forget, _Steward_, that you have no authority to deny the return of the true king of Gondor."

Spluttering out a laugh, the Steward demanded, "Is that a threat?"

"It is not my place to threaten you, my Lord."

Again pointing his finger in a jabbing motion towards the Elf, Denethor accusingly said, "And yet here you are in the middle of the night trying to intimidate a vulnerable old man. Well, you will not frighten me with your words, Elf."

"You are a fool. Look at what you have done to your people." The Steward glowered at him darkly. "You have all but destroyed your kingdom. Lead your people to ruin. And now you refuse to return to them their only hope."

It was said calmly but he could tell that Denethor was rattled by the words. The old man nevertheless stared steadily at him, apparently hoping to intimidate him in the same manner he'd intimidated people all his life. He couldn't possibly have known that such intimidation would never work on Legolas. After sitting in council with the fearsome King Thranduil and his court, facing the drunken Steward posed little threat or problem to the exiled Prince of Mirkwood.

"What," Denethor growled in a low voice slightly slurred by the wine, "would you know about it?"

"Much more than you," answered Legolas simply, moving with slow movements around the table, edging closer to the Steward. He had no plans for violence against the old man but he had learned long ago the power of his blue stare upon other beings and he wanted Denethor to feel the full force of it. Even in the orange candlelight and against the drunkard of a Steward he felt confident that it held significant sway.

Denethor sat back in his chair, the old wood creaking under his weight. To Legolas' mild irritation, the man looked remarkably at ease. No doubt that had much to do with the large amount of alcohol in his system emboldening him but it still irked Legolas somewhat.

"That boy will never replace the Stewardship."

"He has the right to claim the throne from you."

"He is a child! A clueless, idiot child!"

"Mind your words, Steward!"

The man snorted in laughter, his fingers twitching toward the thick bottle on the table. Legolas guessed that this was not the first time Denethor had spent the night drowning his sorrows in the company of vintage wine from the city's probably dwindling stores.

"You're a protective one, aren't you?"

"I have to be. Many have tried to do harm to the king. And you have not been particularly welcoming to either of us so far."

"Can you blame me?" the Steward asked in a voice that could almost have passed for good-natured had they been speaking of anything else. He leaned forward, supported by his forearms on the table and finally gave in to temptation. After taking a long swig from the bottle, Denethor put the wine back down and looked up at Legolas. "You are here to usurp me."

If it was a threat then it was a pretty poor one. By now, the man's words were obviously slurred, he swayed where he sat and it took three attempts to get the word 'usurp' out correctly. Legolas wondered whether the people of Gondor ever saw this flawed side of their leader or whether he drank only in secret.

"I am trying to do what is best."

"Aragorn on my throne."

"On_ his_ throne. If you were to help…"

"This is my kingdom!"

Legolas startled when the Steward's hand came pounding down onto the thick wood, making the candles and bottles jump slightly. Still, the Elf maintained his calm. "You are a Steward, a keeper of the throne only. Upon the true king's return you are obliged to step aside. Do what is best for your kingdom and your people."

"No!"

It seemed that all semblance of diplomacy had passed now and if the hot-headed Steward was not going to be calm about this then neither, Legolas decided, was he.

"Are you really so damned selfish that you would lead your own people into ruin!" yelled the Elf in a rare spate of anger unleashed. The anger must also have sparked boldly in his eyes and looked impressively fearsome as Denethor physically recoiled in the confines of his chair, shock written plain to see on his craggy, weathered face and his mouth snapped shut sharply, wine-stained lips sealed.

Legolas couldn't help but feel rather pleased with himself. Sure, he had always had a similar impact on his young ward, able to scare him into obedience when necessary. But he had been uncertain about his anger's effect on the far more worldly Steward.

For a long moment, Denethor's eyes, looking almost black in the firelight, stared wide and unblinking at the bold Elf stood before him. Unable to speak, he tried to form an argument in his mind, something scathing but rational.

When he found his alcohol-doused mind lacking, he settled for brutish yelling again instead.

"Are you insane?!" he bellowed, leaping up so violently that the chair toppled backwards, landing with a crash on the floor behind him.

Legolas winced. That must have alerted every guard in the vicinity.

"Who do you think you are? You think you can come in here and speak to me in this way? You!" He walked right up to the Elf, swaying drunkenly on the spot, and poked his finger to Legolas' chest. "You are nothing!" he spat." Get out of my sight and then get out of my city!"

This time, he physically shoved Legolas. The impact of the man's gnarled hands against his chest had very little force, barely moving the Elf.

Legolas' hands immediately shot out, taking the man's thin wrists and gripping hard.

"Mistake, old man." He did not take kindly to being manhandled by anyone, least of all the ignorant Steward. Even as he pushed Denethor away, he knew he'd made a mistake of his own. The man was old, unstable, not at all steady on his feet due to age and the alcohol he had ingested that night, and the shove sent him stumbling backwards where he fell awkwardly against the table, crashing against the edge and falling to the floor in a bumbling, heavy mess.

The crash, combined with the earlier yelling, had attracted the attention of the guards, just as Legolas had suspected it would. They burst dramatically through the door now.

Their reaction was completely justified in Legolas' humble opinion. Upon seeing the Elf standing over their Lord, who was on the floor, looking stunned and breathless in the wake of the attack, the guards leapt into action to defend their lord.

Rushing forward, they immediately grabbed Legolas' arms to restrain him. Legolas made no attempt at struggling as he was held. He didn't want to hurt these Men, not when things were so uncertain between Aragorn and Gondor's misguided people. Aragorn would not thank him for making things worse.

Pulling Legolas back, the guards headed towards the door with their restrained prisoner.

But Denethor called them back, ordering them to wait. He stumbled inelegantly to his feet, refusing the help of the guards, glowering at Legolas as he went.

The old man's next move almost impressed the Elf. He moved forward quickly, quicker than the Elf would have expected from an elderly, inebriated Human, raised his balled fist and hit Legolas square in the face. Denethor may no longer have been a fighting man but he must have had some training behind him because the blow was precise and had a surprising amount of force behind it. Certainly, it knocked Legolas back enough that he had to rely on the guards to keep him on his feet.

Tasting blood from a split lip, Legolas regained his balance and slowly raised his head to look at the man who this night had surpassed at least one of his expectations.

"No one has ever stood up to you before, have they?" slurred the Steward bitterly. Anger sparked in his dark eyes but there was a smile – or a sneer, Legolas decided – playing across his lips. He was proud. He had enjoyed his moment of domination over the younger-looking Elf.

Perhaps the echo of memory of that enjoyment was what fuelled his subsequent anger. Stretching out his fingers of his aching right hand, Denethor formed a fist again and landed another blow.

Only when Legolas' eyes met his again did Denethor speak. "You think you always get your own way. That you can come to my realm and take whatever you want." Each sentence, each accusation, he punctuated with another thump aimed somewhere at the Elf. "Bring your false king here to remove me from power gifted to me by the Creators themselves." He grabbed Legolas by the shirt, pulling him in close, so close that the Elf could clearly smell the bitter reek of stale alcohol. "You think me a fool. But you are wrong. You underestimate me, Elf."

The two uncertain guards steadied Legolas when Denethor shoved him backwards again.

Legolas spat out blood, wincing. Old he may have been but Denethor still had some strength in him and this one-sided fight was fast taking it out of him.

With his mouth now clear for a retort, Legolas said, "No, Denethor. You are wrong. Aragorn is the one true king. He deserves the throne. Not you."

"Do you think that if you say it enough times then it will become true?" the man mocked.

"I am already convinced. And you are a fool if you think my convictions wavering, old man."

Wild again, Denethor screamed at him, "This is my kingdom! These are my people!"

"And what have you done for them Steward? Banished them forever from their city, got them cowering in the shadows whilst the Shadow of Mordor reigns in the lands of Men. And this, once the most powerful kingdom of Men on Arda!"

"Before my time, maybe," Denethor scoffed and Legolas was relieved that they had reverted back to dialogue and ditched the one-sided fighting. "It is my father's decisions that led us here, not mine."

"Then help me rectify it," urged Legolas, unashamed by his tone of pleading. Whatever it took, he was prepared to do. For Aragorn. "Help me put it right. Think; the combined might of Men finally unified under one banner. Your king needs you Steward."

The words had worked on Kinnale when they had encountered the Rangers on Amon Sul and again in Edoras on Eomer so Legolas had high hopes too for Denethor. But the Steward, it seemed, could not be so easily manipulated.

"My king?!" he bellowed in another fit of anger. "My king?! I have no king! Rule of Gondor is mine and no other's!" He wagged his finger before Legolas' face. A threat. "And you would do well to remember that." Laughter then bubbled from him, bordering on hysterical. The Steward, Legolas realised with a start as he looked into darkened eyes, was frightened. But of what? That his rule was under threat? Or was it a confrontation with the Shadow he hid from that he feared? This man who was supposed to be an unmoveable leader, a pillar of his city, strong and unbending, was, in Legolas' eyes, nothing but a frightened little boy taking the easy way out.

Pride, for himself and his heritage rather than that of his kingdom, kept him bound to the White City. In that twisted mind, Denethor believed that so long as the white stone of the city was visible from Osgiliath through the haze of the Shadow then it was a victory for the Stewardship. Long ago he could have left, led his people away to safety to another land. A defeat, yes, but at least they would have lived.

Instead, Denethor remained in limbo. Too proud to leave. Too scared to mount an attack on the dark keepers of his taken city. And he held his people in this self-imposed purgatory as well, putting them between the Shadow and himself through his own fear. Even his own son. Terrified of the monsters encamped within the city, he hid behind his soldiers, his Council, never having to face what lurked in the White City.

The weaknesses of Men once more making themselves known.

That was why Denethor hated Arathorn so much. He was a threat. Denethor knew, for Aragorn had laid it out quite clearly for him when they had first been brought before the Council that first time, that Aragorn would not be a passive king. An attack on the invaders of the City would be launched and the balance of tentative peace would be upset. Maybe, Denethor was even afraid that a sword may be thrust into his own hand.

Legolas had just moments ago thought Denethor foolish but now he understood. He was not a fool. He was a coward.

"Oh," Legolas laughed somewhat humourlessly at this revelation. "You poor, sad old man."

"What did you call me?"

Was that fear renewed Legolas saw in dark eyes? Did Denethor fear that maybe he might be exposed for what he really was? Was that the reason for all the guards, the redundant Council, the liquor?

"You heard me," Legolas pushed, knowing that a coward was a dangerous thing indeed, especially one with as much to lose as Denethor had. "You are a sad old man, too much of a coward to do what you know to be right." Denethor's eyes widened in horror at the accusation, flickering briefly to the two men holding the Elf. He was obviously torn between sparing his embarrassment and sending them away or keeping them for safety's sake. Being a coward, his choice was predictable to Legolas. He did not dismiss them. "I pity you, Steward. To be so afraid that you spend all your life in exile, hiding in some battered, squalid old town knowing all the time that the end is just around the corner. And bringing your people, brave and strong as they once were, down to your low level. Are you ashamed, Steward?"

"Shut up," Denethor said softly, his voice lacking any force.

"Are you embarrassed to have been brought so low? Or do you not care? Is this the ideal for you? Hiding? Is that how you want to end? Cowering in some hovel surrounded by slain soldiers, by dead family, until the Shadow encompasses all and you are finally free of your purgatory?"

"Shut up!" Louder this time, voice trembling.

"But what then? What happens when the Shadow comes, Steward? Do you think they will spare you? Will you surrender to them to save your own neck? Or offer your own people in exchange for your survival? Would you serve him, the Dark Lord?"

"Silence!"

"Do you think your death will come quickly? Or will you linger in fear and self-loathing for years under the yoke of the Darkness? Is that a price you can stand, Steward?" shouted Legolas, bold and unrelenting in his efforts now that he had found the weak link in Denethor's armour. "Is it? Steward! Denethor! Coward!"

That did it.

"Shut up!" the man screamed almost hysterically. His face was a picture of fury. Tears streamed down rugged cheeks; frustration and anger overflowing. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

This time, the man launched himself bodily at Legolas, slamming into him full-force, taking them both down to the floor before the guards stood on either side of the Elf had a chance to react. They stood dumbly, shoved aside by the attack. Made strong by his fury, Denethor rained down blows on Legolas. And Legolas made no attempt to retaliate. He took his punishment in silence, having expected such an explosion from the Steward eventually. His two guards had stepped further away, torn between not getting in the path of their Lord's will and putting an end to this hurt being inflicted upon their prisoner.

"What? Father!"

Suddenly, the enraged Steward was dragged, swearing and struggling, off of his victim. Looking up, Legolas blinked to find Faramir pushing his father up against the opposite wall in order to restrain him. Even drunk and partially restrained, the Steward was quite a handful. So much so that Jecha, who had appeared in the doorway just seconds after the Gondorian man, strode across the room to assist.

"What did you do?" demanded the incredulous voice of Eomer of the Elf.

Legolas took the Rohan man's hand, shooting him an irritated look and heaved himself to his feet. No serious injuries had been sustained in the attack but it still hurt, the blows he had sustained.

"Legolas?"

"You! Fetch the physician!" Faramir shouted to one of the stunned guards in the room.

By now, he'd managed to subdue his father for silence had fallen in the chamber. But Denethor had sunk to the floor and was leaning listlessly, glassy-eyed against the wall. Perhaps it was shock, Legolas mused. His words had not been kind but they had undoubtedly held a resonance of truth, one that the old Steward had long denied even to himself.

Abandoning Legolas, Eomer joined his fellow Men at the side of the Steward although there was little he could do.

Meanwhile, Legolas simply watched. He found himself suddenly filled with unexpected remorse. Yes, he'd meant to hurt the Steward but only to shock him into understanding. That his actions might have such an adverse effect had never crossed his mind.

Moments later, a healer of Gondor entered, followed by two more and they instantly went about fussing over the Steward. Legolas could not see through all the bodies in the room what was going on or hear what was being said. So he just stood and waited, leaning against the wall to steady himself. None approached him to ask if he was well even though he was beaten and must have looked almost as much of a fright as Denethor himself. He did not want the attention though. Better to wait on the side-lines, wait for the outcome.

Eventually, the Steward was carried from the room after being persuaded to lie on a stretcher for his own comfort. Faramir was at his side, looking deeply concerned. People dispersed rapidly after their Lord's departure. Still, not one man of Gondor paid Legolas any heed, not even the guards. It seemed that he was not being blamed for the attack.

Finally only Legolas, Eomer and Jecha remained standing in the well-lit tavern. The atmosphere was thick with tension. It only broke when Eomer uttered a soft, disbelieving chuckle. Running his hand over his short beard, he shoved his left hand in his pocket, bowed his head and took slow but long paces to traverse the length of the room. Jecha remained characteristically still and silent although his eyes were fixed unflinchingly upon Legolas, accusation shining in their depths.

For once, Legolas decided that it was he who must break the silence. Rare an occurrence as it was; he pictured in his head Aragorn's inevitable reaction to his decision and forced back a smile.

"I…"

He did not get any further though. Eomer's hand shot out of his pocket to stab the air in a sign calling for silence. And just to be certain that he was understood, he snapped loudly, "Shut up," an echo of Denethor's earlier shouts, although in control rather than wild.

The man was angry so Legolas concluded that obedience was the most prudent in that moment. So, he dipped his head and settled for listening to Eomer pace the room.

Quite expectedly, the man's sense of calm did not last overly long.

"What were you thinking?!" Eomer exploded in anger no longer containable.

Finally raising his head, Legolas looked the Rohan commander directly in the eyes, a clear gesture of openness and honesty and said calmly, "I only came to talk to him."

"Talk to him?!" Clearly Legolas' calm had not rubbed off on the hot-headed man as he'd hoped it would. "Talk?!"

"Yes. I believed I could reason with him."

"Oh, I see," Eomer nodded, mockingly, then jabbed his accusing finger at the Elf again. "And when that failed you sought to beat some sense into him?"

At this, Legolas had to protest vehemently, "He attacked me!"

"He's an old man, Legolas."

"I'm aware, Eomer. I did nothing to hurt him."

"No? Then why did he have to be carried from the room on a stretcher?"

"Maybe because he's drunk!"

"So that makes it acceptable, does it? It's all right to attack an elderly, unarmed man so long as he's thoroughly inebriated?"

"Will you listen to me! I did not attack him. He attacked me!"

"Really? I'm supposed to believe that?!"

"Believe what you will; it's the truth."

"Did…Did you even think, Legolas, what this could do to our cause? This will come back through you to harm Aragorn! You could just have lost us a great ally."

"What part of 'I did nothing' can you not comprehend?" shouted Legolas, moving closer to Eomer so that they were almost touching. Before the man could form a bitter reply, Legolas carried on, "Take a look, Eomer. Do you really believe that Denethor – old, cowardly, drunk Denethor – could have done this," he pointed to his bloody, bruised face, "had I chosen to fight back? For all my faults in your eyes, Eomer, can you really accuse me of being a lesser fighter than the Steward of Gondor?!"

Through Eomer's silence Legolas knew that his point had finally hit home. However, the man did not stand down and so Legolas too remained at the ready. After all, he had felt the power of Eomer's fists once before. He had no intention of being the passive party in a fight twice in the same night.

After looking from tense face to tense face a couple of times, Jecha, who'd stood in silence during the entire confrontation, finally stepped in before things could progress further than merely flying accusations.

Coming to stand in between them, he laid one hand on each chest to halt before any physical confrontation that might be on the horizon.

"Enough now," he said in his most commanding tone, being sure to force the words out carefully so that through his thick accent they were not misunderstood – not that he worried too much about such a thing, he was perfectly capable of tearing the two warriors apart if the need called for it. Both looked at him, noted the dark glint in his exposed eyes, recognised that this man could very easily physically overpower them if need be and that he would not hesitate in doing so. For all his quiet nature, Jecha had proven himself a deadly creature and not one to be crossed.

Legolas, however, remained determined that Eomer would be the first to move away. And Eomer, it seemed, was equally determined not to be the loser of this particular stand-off.

"Stop it! Both of you!" Jecha snapped irritably, giving both of them a slight push away so they were forced to step backwards. He was tired of playing referee in this fight.

"Fine." Eomer turned his back on the other two and moved away to stare broodingly into the fire.

"Now, it doesn't matter who started it or how it began but what happened this night cannot possibly have helped our cause. Someone will have to speak with the Steward and his son when things have calmed down a little more." Jecha looked at each of them in turn but Eomer refused to turn around and Legolas moved his smouldering gaze away to the candlelit window. With a weary sigh and a shake of his head, Jecha concluded, "I suppose I will take on that task myself." No reply. Having to force calm at being caught in the middle of this childish dispute when there were so many more important things to worry about, Jecha continued coolly, "And someone must inform the King."

At this, Legolas did react, just as Jecha had known he would.

"Aragorn!"

"He must know of this occurrence."

"I will do it."

"Perhaps, under the circumstances, it would be better coming from Eomer."

"I just said that I would do it," interrupted Legolas sharply.

"Tonight?"

As if he could see the young king standing just beyond the thick wooden door, Legolas stared across the room with a strange look of sadness upon his shadowed face.

When he spoke again, it was achingly soft. "No. Tonight I shall let him rest. Tomorrow I will explain all." Two sceptical expressions greeted him when he turned back around. He insisted though, "I will."

"We believe you," calmed Jecha with a sharp nod, although his tone reminded Legolas of the one his father had used with him when he was just a small Elfling and he had just told a blatant lie before the King. Scepticism.

Eomer, naturally, was rather less diplomatic in his approach and let out a doubtful snort. It wasn't like he owed it to the Elf to cover the truth with kind fantasies. Let him feel bad about himself this once.

Rather than defend himself against this wordless accusation of distrust, Legolas turned curtly on the spot and strode from the room, once more letting the darkness swallow him up. No one was about. It was still full night; dawn was at least a couple of hours away. He still had time to think. Legolas continued on through the streets. Even though the city was eerily silent, Legolas' feet made no sound upon the cracked stones that made up the paths amongst now mostly abandoned houses.

People in Osgiliath banded together. Congregating in the centre of the city provided a feeling of security and the very real advantage of safety in numbers. So most of the houses on the outskirts of what had once been the residential area of Osgiliath sat dark, long since empty because of the threat of the Shadow. Only the Steward's makeshift residence had been thoroughly bathed in light. The townspeople had no such luxury.

Despite the darkness of the populated area, Legolas felt freer the further away from the people he got. He moved quickly although had no particular destination in mind. That desperate need to be moving had been nagging at him for a while now, joining with the pain in his heart to at times make the pressure on his chest almost unbearable. It felt good to be alone with his thoughts.

Never had Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, so loved and protected ensconced within his green kingdom beyond the mountains, ever imagined that he would find himself restricted within the confining world of a city of Men.

What had he come to?

That dark day, robbed of his home and family, he had been certain that death would be his fate. Not this. And surely, he wondered idly, he deserved no less for his sins.

**To Be Continued…**


	61. In Your Head

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews. I hope you all enjoy this next chapter.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 61 – In Your Head**

As Legolas walked, he closed his eyes, confident that his senses would guide him safely and without mishap. It wasn't like his eyesight was much good in this thick darkness anyway. He tried to imagine, as he walked, that he was wandering down the simple, bumpy mud path leading from his homeland to the mountains. He heard in his head the dying, ghostly cries of the once great green forest far in the distance and although it hurt more in his chest, he welcomed the familiarity and the pain.

Faltering a little in his footsteps as the crying within his head increased in volume, Legolas' hand shot up to rest upon his chest above his heart.

Wanting now to dispel of the image of his past, he opened his eyes, focusing on the dark surroundings of Osgiliath, and started working on shoving the pain aside as he had done multiple times in the past, but it would not work as it had done previously. Suddenly, he found himself struggling for breath amidst the searing agony. Forcing air brutally into his lungs, Legolas bent over, doubled up, hand clenched into a tight fist and pressed hard to his heaving breast.

Gasping in another painful gulp of warm air, he tried in vain to cry out for help. It was futile, he knew. No sound could be forced from his constricted throat. And even if he had been able to call out, there was no one close enough to hear.

Unable to breathe and becoming increasingly overwhelmed by the pain, Legolas stumbled sideways off the relatively smooth stone of the trodden path and into the dirt on its edge. He almost toppled over but instead crashed hard into the solid stone wall of a building. The new pain of his collision barely registered above that in his chest. Like fire, it burned, searing in his veins and filling his senses. Sliding down to the ground, arm grazing against uneven stone, Legolas pulled his legs up and huddled in a tight ball, willing the overpowering agony to cease.

Resting his forehead, now beaded with cold sweat, against his bent knees, he tried to will himself back into control. Pain could be dominated; just like loneliness and hunger, it could be stored away in the back of the mind, carefully hidden so that functioning could continue for as long as necessary to survive. The exiled Prince had been doing just that for the best part of a century now. He saw no reason why this tried and tested means of endurance should now collapse on him.

And yet, the dreadful pain continued to batter him, building now in his stomach and his head as well. What was this ruthless affliction, Legolas wondered vaguely. An affliction of the soul rather than the body was his guess.

Was this punishment then for his cruel words to Denethor? They had been true and yet painful to speak. Had all that guilt and self-hatred finally moved beyond merely blackening his soul and had sought a more physical outlet? Was he being poisoned by the dark secrets he'd held inside for so long? For the words he had spoken to Denethor echoed closely the opinion he held of himself.

Such a terrible hypocrite he had felt throwing them carelessly at another. Weak and cowardly he had branded the Steward. But the truth was that despite all the man's many flaws, Legolas still considered him to be the better man.

True, the altered Steward had abandoned his capital, had sought refuge behind the safety of his soldiers but even he had not entirely abandoned his people, not as Legolas had. Perhaps the Steward did not fight the hordes of Mordor as a warrior but in Legolas' eyes he still clung to one small act of bravery: Loyalty.

Long ago, Denethor could have fled. Upon taking up the mantle of the Stewardship from his father Ecthelion he could easily have taken his wife and left the city and its people to their fates. And yet he remained; lonely and soul-weary, but ultimately still standing amongst those who looked to him for leadership.

Why, Legolas wondered as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the deep agony making his whole body tremble, could he not have been as brave? Why had he not remained in Mirkwood with his people? He could have, he knew. After seeing the King fall, he could have fought off his loyal but feeble friend's attempts to drag him away, he could have turned back to fight even if he stood no chance against the Uruk-hai invading his home. Surely death would have been preferable to this life.

But he had not stayed with his fallen people. He had feared death and he had run from it. And he had not been able to save those he loved.

He gasped again and pushed his head back against the pitted stone of the wall. He was beginning to grow dizzy.

Tears rolled unchecked down his cheeks. Here, hidden in the darkness, there was no one to see him succumb to grief. Why should he be ashamed when in his life he had done so many more shameful things, unforgiveable things?

He allowed himself, at long last, to recall those dreadful memories he'd long kept hidden even from himself. What did it matter now if this was the end? Let him suffer the fate he had been denied upon the falling of Mirkwood. It was no less than he deserved.

His father had screamed at the end, he remembered. Kings, those of royal blood, should always remain brave and strong so Legolas had always been taught, and yet Thranduil, proud, noble son of Oropher, had lived his final moments in abject terror. Never in his life had he witnessed the King afraid of anything or anyone. But then he had never expected to really. According to all those he had ever spoken to on the subject, a king was always unflappable, untouched by the feelings and fears that blighted other men. And yet, Thranduil had screamed a most blood-curdling scream at the end.

Despite this unexpected and uncharacteristic flaw in strength though, Thranduil had been strong. He had stayed with the kingdom he had built from the ground up and loved as dearly as his own family. Legolas had run.

How many people had still been trapped inside the vast honeycomb of rooms that had made up the great palace of Mirkwood? What of those that Legolas himself had told to hide, had instructed to wait for his return? Had they waited long enough that the Orcs' final sweep had uncovered them, or had they been cut down by the agents of the Shadow long before? Or perhaps the fire had gotten them. It was an unbearable thought, for others to have endured such an agonising end because of his cowardice.

Even his own family had not survived. He had not even been there when their lives ended. Only by accident had he stumbled upon the already cold bodies of his wife and children where they lay on the richly carpeted floor of his royal apartment, struck down, along with their loyal bodyguards, by the filth of Mordor that invaded their home on a far too regular basis. They had presented an easy target to the Shadow. How could the Orcs spare such obvious, vulnerable prey when it stood unprotected before them? His wife had fought, he knew, doing all she could to defend their children. Her knife, gifted to her by the King himself upon her joining with Legolas, lay beside her, unstained by Orkish blood. She had not stood a chance. She had never even had an opportunity to strike back. They had knocked her down and Legolas could easily imagine them laughing at her feeble attempts at defence. She could defend herself; Legolas had ensured it. Every Elf capable of bearing a weapon in Mirkwood was given the opportunity to learn, such was the evil attacking their home. But against such beasts, one knife would not have sufficed. After all, the Orcs had slaughtered the bodyguards assigned to protect the royals.

As the initial evacuation of the Stronghold had been called for, he had sat there on the floor, unable to move, cradling those he loved and wailing at the injustice the Shadow brought to their lands.

Sobbing brokenly into his hands, Legolas recalled with perfect clarity the moment that his beloved had pleaded with him to leave the forest, to take their still young children, blessings to the forest realm, somewhere safer, maybe even to the Undying Lands beyond the Sea where they may live under the protection of the Valar. The argument had been fierce; a rare occurrence in what had been an otherwise equitable relationship. She had begged for his compliance, fearing not just the danger presented to him on his frequent patrols of his beloved forest but also the encroaching danger from the Shadow's inexorable march against Thranduil's stronghold, and he had stubbornly ignored her warning, arguing that his people needed him to remain behind, needed him to defend them.

'_And what of your family?'_ she had yelled at him in tearful fury.

'_Some things are more important,'_ he had replied entreatingly, calm and set in his resolve.

Would he have hated himself as he did now had he done as she had pleaded and left Arda with her?

The conundrum beat around his throbbing head. He groaned in despair, then toppled over onto his side so that he laid in the cold dirt, where he thought he belonged, his back pressed against the wall.

"I'm sorry." The words sounded so very strange coming from his tight throat. Had he ever uttered them before? He could not recall. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Oddly comforting, that little mantra. Rocking in time, he begged to the silent street for forgiveness for his sins to be absolved. It was not to be because there was no one left to offer forgiveness. He was alone.

What had become of him? How had he come to be here; lying in the dirt miserable and useless?

Pain overcame him again, putting a halt to the words beseeching forgiveness and he curled up tightly, arms wrapped around himself. Was this how it felt to die? It seemed fitting that it end in agony, no less than he deserved given the agony he had through his selfishness inflicted upon others, that he should be alone in his last moments to revel in the misery of his failings.

But he was not alone. He realised with a start that there was something out here in the city with him. In his mind, he recalled Faramir telling him of the terrible creature walking Osgiliath's streets preying upon the unfortunate lost souls unable to defend themselves. Most certainly he qualified as such a soul drowning in his grief. A sob of fear shot through him but quickly disappeared. What did it matter _how_ he died? One way was much the same as another. Perhaps the monster prowling the streets would be more merciful.

Opening his eyes, Legolas saw a shadow, tall and forbidding. A shudder racked his thin frame, bile rose in his throat and the pressure in his head intensified to the point where he thought he might black out.

Noise filled his ears, entered his mind. At first he could not identify what the sound was but after a minute the pain in his head started to dim a little, allowing him to work out what the sound was. When he did, a frown creased his damp brow. Laughter. Deep, tinny laughter filled the hush of the deserted outskirts of the City of Stars.

Gasping in fetid air once more, Legolas tried to haul himself up from where he lay vulnerable on the ground. Fingers dug into the dirt as he twisted onto his front, enabling him to pull his weary body up onto his hands and knees, head still bent.

"Pathetic!" a high, distorted voice decided and a hard kick by a sharp, metal-toed boot connected with Legolas' side, sending him back to the ground with a heavy, painful thud.

"What…?" Speaking had become no easier so Legolas gave up and instead looked up at the shadowed presence interrupting his final moments.

The voice seemed bored as it pronounced, "You are not dying, Immortal."

"What?" Again it was gasping, almost inaudible.

And yet the shadow must have heard it because it took a casual step backwards onto the paved street and sighed loudly, "Idiot creature."

As rapidly as it had assaulted him just a few moments ago, the pain vanished. So abrupt was the change that his equilibrium, only just regained, was lost again and he fell back to the ground with a gasp.

It took a moment for him to calm his breathing, frantic as it had become when he had finally been able to draw air into his burning lungs and more time still for his head to clear enough to recall that he was no longer alone. He felt worryingly weak as he struggled back up onto his knees. It was as if all his body's energy had been sapped from him by whatever malevolent shadow he had been gripped by. Whether by this creature towering over him or by the sheer weight of his memories resurfaced he did not know. There was, though, a more pressing matter at hand, namely the shadowy being watching him.

"At last!" exclaimed the creature.

There was no doubt in Legolas' mind that this was an agent of the Shadow. It oozed malevolence. Darkness clung to it, thick and foreboding, and it made Legolas shudder in fear. He knew this was not one of the Nazgul. Having faced them once already, he was certain that he could recognise their presence when again faced with it. And yet there was a powerful charge in the air. Dark magic was easily recognisable even to the most ignorant of Arda's beings, and Legolas was no fool, he'd seen more than his fair share.

Slowly, the Elf climbed up to his feet, his palms pressed against the wall behind him for support as his legs still shook weakly.

"Who are you?" His voice was hoarse, impossible to disguise the weakness behind it.

The tall being laughed again, a terrible sound that filled the streets and resounded around Legolas' head. It found the question amusing, as if its answer should have been obvious.

"What are you?" Legolas rephrased ominously. He was acutely aware that he had but one weapon on his person – the small dagger on his belt. Such a small blade, he felt, would have no effect on this mysterious being, especially seeing as any attack on his part would be weak and ineffectual at best. He feared he'd be useless in a fight.

The being knew this. It was unconcerned. Legolas posed it no threat. As of yet, it had not even drawn a weapon. Although with the ability to create and vanish such immense pain on a whim, Legolas doubted it felt the need for any physical weapon at all.

"Who are you?" Legolas repeated with more strength this time.

It seemed to make little impact upon the creature, although upon the Elf's third try, the being deigned to answer.

Proudly standing taller, it declared somewhat grandly and extremely chillingly, "I am the Voice of Mordor."

The grand title meant little to Legolas though. Never had he heard of such a creature. Still, he had, somehow, the absolute knowledge that this was a close ally of the Dark Lord and that was a good enough reason to fear.

Swallowing thickly, he asked rather less confidently, "Why are you here?"

The being cocked its head to the side, as though this particular question was wholly unexpected. Still, it gathered its wits within a minute and answered in an almost polite tone, "I have come to speak with you, Thranduilion, and to take from you another king."

A shot of fear went through Legolas' heart. Aragorn. It had come for Aragorn.

Knowing that within the core of the slumbering city, Aragorn lay entirely unaware of this terrible danger to his life, Legolas sought for a way out. But the creature was very effectively blocking his escape and even if he could manage to dodge past the vast form and race towards his ward he knew that he would never make it, he did not have the strength to outrun the Shadow.

"You tremble, Thranduilion," the Mouth of Sauron mocked around a laugh.

Legolas had to admit, "I am afraid."

"For your ward."

"Yes."

"And for yourself?"

How much of his heart had this creature seen? Did it know of all his many imperfections, his doubts over his questionable character?

"Yes," he answered honestly.

Again, the creature laughed. "Yes that is wise. You reek of dread." It paused as if to observe the Elf it had caught in its net, mulling over the brief exchange of frank words. It had intelligence. Sauron's aides may have been mindlessly obedient but they were not all as dull-witted as the hybrid Orcs that made up the vast legions of the Shadow Army. It was not to be intimidated by the sharp minds of Elves. After all, it was allied to the Master of All Arda; what had it to fear from one solitary Elf?

Coming a short step closer, it said quietly, voice laced with malice, "You are right to fear. The Lord of Shadow knows much of you, Legolas of Greenwood."

"Does he now?" A poor and horribly belated attempt at nonchalance and both beings knew it.

After uttering another throaty chuckle, the dark creature carried on. "Indeed. You have made some grievous mistakes, Foolish One."

"You think so?"

The dark head nodded solemnly. "Never should you have taken such a dangerous path. Now I fear there is no turning back for you."

"I have no intention of doing so."

"No." It laughed and this time it sounded almost wistful, as if it understood the duty, the heavy burden that Legolas carried, and sympathised to an extent with it. Legolas knew this to be a trick though. This thing had no soul. It had no capacity for sympathy. "And yet," it continued and had it not been for the deep Darkness surrounding the creature and the slight edge of danger in its tone this could almost have been mistaken for a casual conversation, "the Dark Lord does allow for some leniency, even amongst the most heinous traitors to his dominion."

"If your Lord thinks he can turn me to the Shadow then he is sorely mistaken and you are wasting your time with me." With breath once more in his body, Legolas was relieved to hear that his words were becoming stronger again even if they didn't sound quite as impressive as he would have liked.

"Ah, but the Shadow is already inside you, Thranduilion. It has been for some time." This self-satisfied declaration was followed by sharp movement as the creature delved its gloved hand into its mass of thick black robes to retrieve something, which upon finding, it pulled out before Legolas with a flourish.

Legolas' blood ran cold and for the second time that night all the air was wrenched from his body. His hand shot to his heart, mouth open in unconcealed horror.

"You recognise it, Prince." The creature cracked a sickening grin of pleasure. "Behold, the blood of your sire decorating his own blade."

"No." Indeed, the blade, shining brightly even in the night for it was truly made by Elvish hands, easy to recognise for its shape, was stained and the thought that this was the very sword that had been used on his father sickened the Elf. He slumped against the wall once again, shaking his head in desperate denial. "No. No!"

"You cannot deny."

"NO!"

"The blood of a coward. The same blood beats in your own heart, Thranduilion. You are one and the same." It paused then, waiting completely still and silent for Legolas to regain some semblance of control so that its next offer was not lost on the Elf. When steely blue eyes were once more focused upon him, the Mouth of Sauron went on. "Redeem your cowardice now, Thranduilion. You need only utter but a few words to be absolved of all your crimes against your Lord and Master. Give me the location of the child and release yourself from this self-imposed misery."

Legolas shook his head, forcefully tearing his eyes away from the creature. More than the macabre interest in his father's lost sword, the creature of Shadow held some kind of inexplicable, almost hypnotic effect on him.

With a jolt of horror and contempt for himself, he realised suddenly that he was tempted by the offer.

Should he meet the Lord of Darkness, he would be condemned to death, almost certainly. Perhaps then, when in the Halls of Waiting, he could join those long since lost to him and all this pain and guilt would at last be done with. How tempting this now proved with the decision laid freely before him. Whether through the Shadow's influence washing over him or his own dark longing for freedom, he felt his mouth opening to accept.

"He…He is…"

"Yes?" the dark creature encouraged, stepping forward eagerly, the tip of Thranduil's lost sword pointing harmlessly down to the earth in its distraction.

Why did he hesitate? It could have ended this life of cruel purgatory for once and for all, could have freed his tormented soul at last. And yet, he couldn't. The words choked in his throat, bitter and stubborn. He bowed his head, fighting the urge to curl into a ball and pitifully cry.

After a long moment of simply breathing in and out, Legolas nodded just once. Upon raising his hard eyes, he found the tall creature staring expectantly at him, waiting for the inevitable result of its considerable powers of persuasion.

Swallowing back the lump of disappointment in himself that had lodged low in his throat, the exiled Prince of Mirkwood gave his answer.

"He is…"

"Yes."

"Beyond your reach, foul creature of Darkness!"

For a long while, the air was thick with the silence that followed Legolas' defiant declaration. In its hand, the sword of Mirkwood quivered, undoubtedly with sheer rage. Few had dared to defy him for he _was_ Mordor, spoke for those lands and the whole world's master.

The atmosphere began to grow heavy, pressing in around them and Legolas felt as if a great weight was on his chest and he struggled once more to breathe. Shaking, he'd braced himself for the coming pain he'd imagined would follow for his noncompliance but it did not come. His eyes were fixed upon the robed shadow, curious and fearful in equal measure.

"A poor choice, Thranduilion." The conclusion was soft and yet brimmed with hatred and fury.

"My choice."

Taking a short step closer to its trapped prey, the lieutenant of Barad-dur seemed to calm and the suffocating tension dissipated. "But are you certain?" it queried teasingly.

"Kill me if you will, but you will never know anything of my charge. I know where my allegiance lies, where it will always remain."

"Loyalty; such a terrible weakness amongst your kind." Coming closer still, the creature revelled in its next words, knowing how they would wound. "Erestor of Imladris was loyal to you right up until the end."

Legolas felt his heart contract in pain. "What?" he managed to force out.

"Not just towards you but towards his lord also. Even after we slit the throat of his friend and tortured him to the very brink of madness, he remained rather stubbornly steadfast in his convictions." It grinned as Legolas exhaled a ragged sob of denial. "I asked him before the end if it was truly worth it. But he would not relent. His head looked mightily fine mounted upon my master's wall." Legolas was trembling now with grief and rage and he looked up into the pale face of this most hated tormentor. The next cruel words broke any sensible restraint he'd been holding onto though. "It adorned the space next to your father."

"NO!"

Fuelled by anger more intense than any he had ever felt before in his long life, Legolas threw caution to the wind and recklessly pushed himself away from the wall, launching himself at this sadistic creature of pure evil. He took great satisfaction as the being, wraith-like though it appeared, was actually a heavy, solid mass that hit the ground with a painful crash. The creature had not anticipated quite such a violent reaction to his words, not expected the tortured Elf to be quite so vicious in his attack. Legolas had drawn his dagger on him before it even recalled that it possessed a weapon of its own.

Raising the dagger high above his head, the exiled Elven prince released a feral cry and brought the weapon down as hard as he could against the monster pinned beneath him.

The dagger never hit its mark. The creature had size and strength on its side and with its life under threat, it reacted instinctively. It threw the light weight of the prince from its body. Unable to fight such a strong action, Legolas hit the ground hard but rolled smoothly further away from the creature of Darkness before nimbly regaining his footing.

Adrenaline overruled common sense then and as the creature somewhat ungainly gained its feet, Legolas attacked again.

One short blade against such a powerful being was always destined to be ineffectual, even if it was propelled by cold hatred.

The creature halted Legolas' approach with a wide sweep of Thranduil's sword and wisely the Elf danced away from the deadly arch. It laughed at the retreat; good humour returned now that it felt back in control of the situation. Again, Legolas darted forward but he was no match for the broadsword of the Elves wielded by a creature of terrible dark magic.

"Foolish child."

Legolas frowned at this mild slur. His chest was heaving with every breath he took, although it was from exertion now rather than the dark sorcery of the Shadow. His frown altered from one of anger to one of confusion. This was Sauron's lieutenant, powerful beyond reason or fear. He knew already that it could cause debilitating agony of the body and soul simply by willing it so and yet the lesser attacker threatening its power and very existence remained still standing, still fighting. It did not add up.

"You…" he started as his mind began to piece everything together. "What…?"

The sword was lowered and the creature grinned, showing off pointed teeth, black and horrible. "Forgive the histrionics. It was best that you did not interfere."

"Interfere?"

The dreadful truth suddenly crashed over him in the same instant that he heard an otherworldly screech from above. Dropping the dagger in favour of protecting his ears from the high-pitched assault, Legolas looked skywards to see the shapes, blacker than the night, soaring over the city. Foul beasts, huge, ancient and unearthly, circled the entire expanse of the city with seemingly no effort at all, their wings rising and dipping slowly, bearing them smoothly across the grey city below. So huge were the dragon-like, scaled beasts that the very fact that they were able to remain airborne seemed a miracle in itself. Red eyes gleamed clear against the cloying greyness of the sky's backdrop.

For all the horror of these primeval beasts, it was the creatures that they bore that turned the previously boiling blood in Legolas' veins to ice. Darker and more menacing even than the beasts upon which they rode, their great heads turned from side to side, sweeping over the city, searching.

There was no mistaking what these Shadow-beings were, for Legolas had once in his past engaged them in battle, barely escaping with his life – indeed, his Ranger friend Kinnale had not been so fortunate.

The Nazgul had come to Osgiliath.

Nor was there any doubt in Legolas' mind why the Wraiths had come.

"Aragorn," he breathed to himself in horror.

"Yes. Yes," the Voice of Darkness hissed in glee. It knew now that Legolas understood the reason behind its coming.

"No."

Not having realised that he had fallen onto his knees after the unnatural screech of the Nazgul, Legolas hauled himself to his feet with great effort, for he found himself exhausted by this encounter with the Voice of Shadow. Horror was blatant on his features. He understood the plot now. All this treating had merely been a distraction. Probably it had been this dark creature that had lured him down this path to a confrontation in the first place. Maybe even his anger whilst speaking with Denethor earlier in the night had been prompted by the presence in the vicinity of this wicked servant of Sauron, leading him away from the centre of the city. Away from Aragorn.

Unwittingly, Legolas had walked right into a trap. Worse, he had left the ward he'd sworn to protect completely exposed.

The lieutenant of the Dark Tower did not need Legolas' direction to find the young king. It had seekers out already who could within mere minutes scour the city for their prize.

Forcing aside his continuing discomfort at the shrill shrieking from above, Legolas turned from the laughing servant of Shadow and made towards the city. Surely all the city had been alerted to the threat to their home by now. The Nazgul were far from subtle in their approach.

"You'll never make it in time; feeble being."

Legolas did not halt, no matter how much he wanted to turn and make the taunting creature regret ever setting foot inside Osgiliath. Aragorn was of more importance than vengeance.

**OIOI**

To Faramir, it seemed as if every living soul in Osgiliath was crowding the streets. Everywhere, people were running. Civilians screamed, moving about as if by simply keeping going they could forestall their demise. Soldiers, too, were frantic. They were trying, mostly with little success, to restore order. In their panic, few listened to the voices of reason and chaos ensued.

A high cry split the shouts of complete terror. As one, the population of Osgiliath ducked, throwing their arms up either to cover their ears or to shield their heads. The beasts came so close that Faramir felt the rush of cold air, distorted by beating wings, above and all around him. He crouched low to the ground. But he needn't have feared. The beasts did not land, simply sailed low then swept back up into the sky, lightening now with the day's new beginning.

Chaos took over completely again with the beasts' ascent. People staggered to their feet and resumed their frantic scurrying around.

Cursing, Faramir also leapt up, sword gripped tightly in his hand. He discovered with a quick glance upwards that the beasts had resumed circling the city. It was as if their strategy was to simply create as much panic as possible with their presence. And if this was indeed the case then they were succeeding. Still, Faramir suspected that they had a greater purpose here and would only circle harmlessly above for so long.

"Get them out of here," he yelled towards a disorganised group of guards as he ran past them. Every soldier he passed received the same sharp command. "Get them inside! Get them off the streets!"

"Captain!"

"Maran!" The Captain of Osgiliath very nearly barrelled into his lieutenant. He wasted no time on greetings. Grabbing the older man's arm, he dragged him away through the throng of people. "Gather the soldiers. Meet in the square and we will defeat this threat upon our home."

"But what are they?" He looked up in horror at the massive creatures, the like of which he had never before seen. "And how can such evil be defeated, sir?"

Breathless, Faramir followed his lieutenant's gaze, forcing down his own fear. It would not do for his men to witness him in the throes of panic.

"I do not know. But defeat them we must. For the city, we must stand and fight. Go now."

"Sir." Maran paused only briefly to accept Faramir's wish of good luck before disappearing amongst the crowd.

Amidst the rising noise of panic, Faramir heard his right-hand man yelling none too gentle commands for the soldiers to do their jobs as they knew how and clear the streets of the innocent civilians. Little could be achieved through disorder. Once said order had been restored, the warriors of Gondor could get to work.

Whilst Maran went off to organise the troops, Faramir ran towards the command post. Denethor remained in bed, being tended to by healers following the attack by Legolas. Faramir knew that his ample personal guard would keep the Steward safe during the invasion. He did not need to worry about his father's safety. Although he had a sneaking suspicion that these monsters had not come for the keeper of Gondor. His thoughts turned, for the first time, to the king. And as his thoughts changed so his physical direction of travel. As he headed away, he broke into a run, moving toward the cluster of buildings where the men of Rohan had been housed.

The creatures did another low swoop over the city and, finding himself suddenly alone on the street, he ducked into a doorway, sheltering himself from the beating wings.

Never before had he laid eyes on these creatures. Yet he thought he knew what they were all the same. Growing up in the constant shadow of the taken city of Minas Tirith, many stories had been told to him by seasoned warriors and kindly councillors alike. They spoke of the taking of Minas Tirith, of the dreadful black creatures that patrolled the White City, striking down any soldier or machine of war put in their way. These creatures could be nothing else. Wraiths.

Men had said that these Shadow agents could not be defeated. All that touched them crumbled under their evil and no blade could cut them.

And now they were here, in Osgiliath, prowling, hunting, searching, destroying everything in their path.

**To Be Continued…**


	62. The Search

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks as always for all the lovely reviews. Enjoy the next chapter.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 62 – The Search**

Terrible pain made his knees buckle no matter how hard he willed them to remain strong, and, unable to support his own slight weight, he fell face-first onto the stone. Contorting against the agony, he tried to force breath into his burning lungs. The stone beneath him was cold and smooth against his skin and Legolas believed it was the only thing keeping him alert, keeping him from succumbing to the pain. He clung to the flagstones, knowing fully well that he could do little but endure this terrible feeling until Sauron's emissary decided that the dose had been sufficient to teach him a lesson in obedience.

The pain diminished abruptly from his body after what seemed a lifetime and Legolas collapsed down, chest heaving against the pavement in exertion and shock.

"Do not fight this, Thranduilion." The creature stepped around him, slowly, tauntingly. Legolas felt the point of Thranduil's sword scrape over his back, hard enough to feel but not enough to injure. It had no use for cold mortal weapons. Their only use was symbolic; to torment. "You know it must be so. You have always known."

Legolas had not enough strength to reply. Perhaps had he not been expending all his brainpower on concocting a plan for escape he might have tried for furious denial or maybe some particularly vicious insults, learned from both Elf and Man. He suppressed a groan. Every muscle in his body ached furiously and he felt too weak to rise. So, he simply lay there, shaking and gasping and waiting for the feeling to pass.

"Just as the child's fate has already been decided, so has yours. Bow to it. Make your final days easy. Surely you have earned the privilege of peace."

It knew just what to say. Already it had seen his deepest fears and desires. There was no point in denying the truth, so Legolas didn't. He let the words of temptation wash over him but refused to let them touch his heart. The thing was trying to antagonise him. Why, Legolas knew not. It could kill him outright and be done with it.

"You have put up a brave fight. Very respectable. Few could have done better. My Lord was impressed; he told me so himself. That is no meagre thing, you know. He is not easily impressed." The creature sighed then; it sounded to Legolas genuinely weary. "But it is over."

A wave of inexplicable weariness passed over him and Legolas again bowed forward to rest his forehead against the street beneath him. Equilibrium of the earth had been restored at least, it seemed. Although it remained unnaturally cold, the air no longer felt charged as it had and Legolas knew instinctively that the Nazgul no longer cursed the skies. Subtle tremors, born of out magic so potent as to be almost unbearable, vibrated beneath him telling him that indeed the Wraiths walked the land now. Legolas tried to picture them, as the Voice of Mordor prattled inanely on, stalking the streets, cutting down all unfortunate enough to be caught in their path.

Where would they search first? Legolas knew that despite their apparent bulk, the Nazgul were quick and nimble creatures. He couldn't imagine it would take them long to search the city. Aragorn surely would have been woken by the pandemonium the arrival of the Wraiths would inevitably have sparked amongst the people of Osgiliath. He would recall them; perhaps see Kinnale's mutilated corpse and bereft son in his mind's eye. And Aragorn would not stay hidden. Legolas knew his ward well. No longer was he the nervous child who, mostly due to Legolas' relentless and tedious training, feared combat. He'd engage the creatures, Legolas knew. Anger would sustain him for a while against their power and maybe they would momentarily quail at the sight of the Elven-blessed Anduril shining in the grey light of day. But it would not last. In battle, he would lose. That much was inevitable. The only way to survive an encounter with the Nazgul was to run. That was what had saved Legolas in the end.

He choked on a cry as he pictured the battle in his mind. No matter how dire things became, Aragorn would not retreat and the Nazgul could not be beaten.

"Yes. They are close," whispered the Mouth of the Dark Lord. It dropped into a crouch at his side, laying its gloved hand against his shoulder. Claws dug into him and Legolas cried out weakly at the pain and sheer horror of having one of the Shadow touch him. "_Feel_ them."

"Please," Legolas sobbed. He could not bear it. All he had fought for, all he had sacrificed was all about to mean nothing and he was utterly helpless. "Please stop."

"Fate cannot be altered."

In Rivendell, Elrond had said much the same thing. The wise Elf Lord had predicted this very happening. Even through his madness born of great grief, Elrond had seen the true hopelessness underlining Legolas' self-appointed quest. But the Lord had been ignored. After all, Legolas knew best, didn't he? He hadn't listened; he hadn't wanted to listen. And that arrogance had been his downfall.

Blocking out the lieutenant's voice, Legolas thought upon his fate. He pictured Rivendell, Erestor caring for Elrond in his infirmity. It saddened Legolas that he had left the lonely advisor. Had he done as he was bidden then Erestor may yet have been alive and Elrond restored to his former health. And Aragorn would not be staring into the towering blackness of his death. Legolas could have wept for his mistakes of the past.

How easy now it would be to surrender. If he laid there in silence long enough then Aragorn's end would come, the Nazgul would retreat with their master's coveted prize and the spokesman of Sauron would tire of him and end his wretched life. It seemed a reassuringly simple end. The pain would finally end. Who knew what would happen next. Much had he done for the salvation and protection of Middle Earth; perhaps this would inspire pity in the Creators and he would be granted peace at last even in the Halls of Mandos where he would be forced to dwell.

Instead of pleading for his end, Legolas simply closed his eyes and waited. The Mouth of Sauron continued to talk, the Nazgul screeched and in the distance Legolas could hear the terrified screams of Men. And still Legolas waited.

Suddenly, another scream pierced the air, this one close and of anger rather than terror.

Loud pounding filled Legolas' head and then a loud crash sounded on the ground right next to him.

"Be gone!"

That voice prompted him to open his eyes at last, the weariness fleeing his body. "Eowyn?"

What he saw quite simply astounded him. Eowyn was literally wrestling with the dark creature on the ground close by, a blur of black, brown, blonde and silver. It looked impossible. Such a slight woman putting up a good fight against a powerful creature of Shadow rendered Legolas motionless and insensible. He could only stare. How was it that she had the strength to do what he could not?

But, he noticed as he watched that she was struggling to manage its power. Surprise had been on her side when she had unexpectedly stumbled upon the chilling tableau and launched an impulsive attack. But it would only be a matter of moments before the Shadow creature regained its senses and overwhelmed her entirely. And she knew it.

"Legolas! Help me!"

He struggled up onto his feet at her urgent plea for aid but collapsed almost immediately back down. So, as the lieutenant of Mordor rolled and threw Eowyn from its bulking form, Legolas crawled messily towards them. He hadn't been looking for it so he startled when his hand nudged cold metal. His father's sword, dropped at the impact of woman upon beast. How right that this ancient blade, heirloom of his family, should now find its way back to him. Dragging it closer to him with his fingers, he wrapped the stiff digits around its warm leather handle – a perfect fit, just as it had been for his father before him. Still, it felt impossibly heavy so he added his left hand to lift its weight from the ground.

After the attack by the Voice of Sauron, Legolas did not have a whole lot of strength left, but what he did have he put to good use in the proceeding moments.

Straightening into a kneeling position, Legolas shuffled towards the creature, which by now had regained control and was bearing down on the Rohan woman irritating it. He was just so tired. Not just weary anymore but physically and emotionally drained. It dragged him down. He wondered, even marvelled to some degree, at this ingenious defence mechanism employed by this foul creature of Shadow. It was an almost humorous thought that if one of the allies of the Light possessed such a skill then things would be so much easier in the coming war.

And yet, for all its tricks and supposed cunning, Sauron's lieutenant had been outwitted by a lone woman of Rohan. Funny, the downfalls of the powerful.

Legolas shook his head, desperately trying to order thoughts into something recognisable as sense. He wondered whether this fuzzy confusion attacking his already befuddled mind was another part of the creature's spell over him. Yes, a most effective defence indeed.

But Legolas' mind for all its transgressions and tangents, continually travelled back to the fate of Osgiliath, and, more specifically, that of his ward. Aragorn. Several times, he repeated the name in silence in his head until the three simple syllables drowned out all else. The mantra proved mostly effective. With his mind now back on track, Legolas used his father's sword as a prop to aid himself to his feet. True, he was weak but sheer determination beat exhaustion, dizziness, confusion and trembling limbs and he was able to stand.

He gave the creature no warning. Only the foolish or the green declared their intentions to their intended target. The sword, heavy and dull though it felt raised high enough to reach its target, hit true.

Legolas did not know what hurt more – the intense reverberation that shot up the gore-caked blade and through his hands and into his head in a blinding stab of intense light or the shriek of absolute fury that echoed all around the besieged city and could probably be heard with some clarity in the neighbouring Minas Tirith.

The creature reared off of Eowyn's prone form, arching backwards. The Sword of Thranduil remained embedded where Legolas had plunged it through thick robes to pierce whatever abhorrence was concealed beneath. Fortunately, the prince had the wits to release the fine handle or he may well not have gotten off so lightly.

Clearly, the Mouth of Sauron was in some way akin to the Nazgul themselves judging from the eerie similarity of their cries as Legolas and the young woman were forced to cover their ears against the terrible sound.

It writhed, staggering about as though inebriated as it attempted futilely to remove the source of its pain. A thin, face, drawn and hideously scarred, turned upwards to the sky so that it could bellow to its companions in the city of Men. Had it not been wounded, Legolas knew that fury would have ended his and Eowyn's lives in an instant. But the Elf's aim had been impeccable.

Very nearly, Legolas found himself trampled beneath the wretched creature. The impact of dark magic sent through the king's sword had knocked him off his feet but he managed to crawl up onto his knees upon realising the unpredictable threat and he crawled towards Eowyn. He was relieved that the woman had survived the attack and although she still laid on the ground he could see that she was watching the lieutenant of Mordor reeling from the attack with some measure of pleasure in her eyes.

"Legolas!" she gasped when the Elf reached her and announced his presence with a gentle touch to her ankle.

The dark creature of Mordor may have been momentarily incapacitated but Legolas knew that they could not afford to relax. He had no idea how long its distraction would last and he wanted to get away before it regained its senses.

Screeching filled the air, making communicating verbally with Eowyn all but impossible, so he gained his feet again and bent to grab her. He felt hot wetness upon her arms as he pulled her up but there was no time to fuss over her injuries right then. Besides, she made no complaint as he tugged her to her feet. No doubt adrenaline was still smothering fear and pain alike. For now it worked for their escape and so he dragged her along, back down the street, away from the mewling creature.

Rarely in his life had Legolas felt so uncoordinated. Perhaps this was how Men felt all the time, he pondered with little humour; fumbling, unbalanced. Several times, the Elf tripped over his own unresponsive feet, which seemed too big and therefore too sluggish for him as they never had before. A few times, it was Eowyn who had to steady him. Despite this sudden rash of clumsiness, he doggedly kept on going, heading for the more built-up part of the city. He could have hidden, he knew. There were plenty of empty buildings that would have served nicely as a temporary sanctuary in which to hide from searching eyes. But he knew he had to find Aragorn, to ensure that the child was safe and that could not be achieved by cowering in some broken wreck. So he pushed onwards, away from the howls of his victim and towards his ward.

Black shadows, obscuring what little light filtered through a thick layer of low, grim clouds, pulled him up short. Now, the unholy shrieking came from above as well. The Nazgul had returned to the skies.

Suddenly filled with dread, Legolas grabbed Eowyn and slammed through the closest door, uncaring that the break-in jarred his shoulder painfully. He dragged the compliant woman by the hand through an old house long since abandoned until he found a small closet, windowless and protected. Pushing Eowyn inside, he followed and slammed the door closed so hard that dust billowed all around them.

It irked him that he was forced to hide from the dreaded Wraiths but he knew his limits – even if he sometimes chose to ignore them – and knew that he had not the strength to battle them.

Breathing heavily and still trembling, Legolas felt Eowyn in the same condition close at his side. He was too worried about discovery to speak though so he settled for wrapping his arm over her shoulders, hoping it would go some way to balm her fear. Her response to this kindness was somewhat unanticipated. First, he felt her lay her head just below his shoulder, then her arms snaked around his waist and his keen ears heard her feet shuffle on the wooden floor closer to him and then she was pressed tight against him.

It was natural in times of distress to seek comfort, Legolas knew, but Eowyn did not seem distressed in that moment. Her breathing remained laboured from her exertions fighting the creature of Mordor but her tremors were already subsiding. Slowly, the young woman's hands moved across his back. She sighed and he could do nothing but stand stock still and tense.

Half his concentration lay on listening to the sounds from outside their small refuge. But he found that he was also concerned for the woman. It may have been decades since he'd had any kind of female admiration directed at him but he recalled the signs now that he was presented with them with relative ease.

Back in his home, such things had hardly been a rare occurrence. After all, he was a young prince and warrior, considered handsome amongst his own people. Over the course of his adulthood, he'd grown used to such attentions. And he had dismissed most of them with confident ease. He was crown prince, his father had often reminded him, he could not indulge in a pretty face or fall for flattering compliments. Years of polite smiles and dismissals followed – bar the occasional private dalliance, which he had never divulged even to his father. Only one woman had ever captured his heart though and it had ever belonged to her alone, even in separation.

But this was not Mirkwood. The king was not there to guide his path. Eowyn was no fluttering Elf-maiden, more drawn to the title than the man. She was ignorant of all he had once been. And he was lonely. This realisation hit him and he gasped softly in the darkness. His heart had been broken at the fall of Mirkwood. Grief for an Elf was simply a waiting game in the end. On the Old Forest Road, he'd known it only to be a matter of time before his soul simply failed on him and he was granted freedom at long last. Arathorn, though, had thrown everything out of balance. Legolas found himself altered in many ways. This was the least expected.

Without even registering his actions, his arms wrapped around Eowyn's thin frame, seeking to keep her close. He stooped slightly, his face pressed to her hair.

He knew that Eowyn had regarded him with admiration ever since he had taken her from the clutches of the Orcs at Helm's Deep. But, generally uninterested in such attentions, he had let it wash over him; she was bound to feel a certain affiliation with her noble rescuer.

Against his chest, she was breathing more rapidly. Her trembling had resumed but he did not think it was through continued fear of the Wraiths roaming the streets outside. Shaking hands moved from his back, over his sides to come to rest flat against his chest. She still did not pull back though. The feeling of closeness seemed to put her at ease even as it made him anxious. He was sure that with her pressed to him she would be able to hear his treacherously pounding heart.

Outside, he could hear the screams, sometimes close, sometimes distant and he imagined the Nazgul having taken to the skies again to better search for the Elf who'd dared lay hand on their comrade. No doubt, the Mouth of Sauron himself had retreated by now, maybe joining the Wraiths in the air or maybe already speeding back to the safety of the Black Lands over the mountains.

Legolas strained to listen as the noises from outside died and all fell silent once more. Lifting his head from where it had rested against Eowyn's hair, he turned slightly towards the door, his arms loosening from around the woman.

She too at last raised her head from his chest, worried at his reaction. Her hand reached up, palm placed against his cheek to gain his attention. "What?" she asked in a fearful whisper.

In the dark, she could see his eyes shining and they held an expression of surprise, as if he had forgotten her presence at his side. Suddenly, the Lady of Rohan realised that her body was pressed flush against that of her Elven saviour, close enough to feel his body through his meagre clothing, and she flushed in embarrassment. A smile flitted over Legolas' lips and she wondered that he could apparently see her reaction. What on earth was she doing? In the aftermath of the battle with the monster of Shadow, followed by their rapid fleeing and hiding from the Wraiths, she found that she had entirely forgotten herself.

The closet suddenly felt so unbearably cramped. Flushing once more, she quickly pulled away from her tall guardian, feeling his arms obligingly disengage their loose hold on her. As she found herself with her back pressed flush to the wall, mere inches from Legolas, she felt horribly claustrophobic and wished that escape was possible.

Legolas, meanwhile, made no movement. He did not retreat but nor did he encourage her to return to his embrace. It seemed that he felt no embarrassment about what had just transpired between them but she Eowyn didn't know whether that brought comfort or not.

Protectively, she folded her arms around herself, her head bowed. No words came to mind so they remained stood in awkward silence, waiting for the coast to clear so they could take to the streets again.

As time passed, Legolas, who had at first stood easy after Eowyn's abrupt retreat, became ever more antsy. With the momentary distraction in the form of the woman of Rohan gone, his mind returned to his ward. True, the Nazgul had been called away from the city by the pained cry of the lieutenant but Legolas had no way of knowing how many had been recalled or how long they would leave the city in peace. There were Nine of them, after all. Legolas was unsure how many of them had come to Osgiliath. Even now they could he scouring the city or even bearing his ward away into the darkness of Mordor.

What on earth was he doing, cowering in a closet whilst the city of Men remained in danger under attack and his ward's life in danger?

Suddenly, Legolas shook his head. This was ridiculous. If he was to meet a Wraith on the path going to the aid of his charge then so be it. He'd fight the damnable creatures off just as he had done so in the past.

Eowyn must have sensed his change in demeanour as she squeezed his hand to gain his attention, silently asking 'what?' of him.

"Let's go," he told her out loud, the sound of his voice startling after long minutes of thick silence. He laid his free hand on the doorknob, preparing to leave but he paused when Eowyn tugged on his hand.

"Is it clear?" she asked in a whisper, still understandably cautious.

"As clear as it's going to be any time soon, I believe."

This assessment did not exactly leave Eowyn brimming with confidence. And yet she trusted Legolas with her life. So she made no protest when he swung open the door to their hiding place. Yet in spite of her assurance that his judgement was best, she heaved a huge breath of relief that nothing leapt out at them when the rest of the house was revealed.

"Come on."

His heart told him to run to the city with all possible haste but two things prevented him from doing so; first, his body remained shaky and unresponsive from his confrontation with the Voice of Sauron and thus incapable of moving with any remarkable speed and, secondly, Eowyn remained at his side, silently urging caution. And caution was indeed the more prudent course. Although Legolas could hear no sign of the unearthly creatures of Shadow, he knew them to be stealthy, cunning when they had to be, and so he remained vigilant for the silent shadows.

They made good progress through the network of streets, mostly due to the fact that both were eager to leave this exposed place for safer ground. Neither knew the city well enough to be completely certain of the way around though, having spent most of their time in Osgiliath's built up heart, mostly under guard during their stay so far. Still, he relied upon his senses, becoming more confident that they were going the right way by the minute.

Soon the houses became more closely clustered together and Legolas sped up, for now it was easy to find the centre, all he needed to do was follow the close screams of terror.

The Nazgul had been thorough. Their fell steeds had created utter devastation in the city, spreading panic, picking off those too slow in fleeing from sharp talons as the beasts swooped through the crowds and ruining buildings as they slammed into them during their search. A few bodies littered the way Legolas took and the screams mostly came from within the buildings where Legolas presumed the bulk of Osgiliath's people were sheltered until the Shadow-storm had passed. Legolas looked to the skies but could see no sign of the reptilian creatures above. Still he did not relax. Just because the Wraiths were not visible did not mean they weren't close by.

Injured Men sat about on the sides of the road but Legolas walked by them without pause, forcing himself to ignore their predicament even as they called to him and Eowyn for help. He had to find Aragorn. Already he could be too late and that thought made his stomach clench in fear. The Men would receive aid soon.

The blanket of hush now covering the city was unnerving. Beneath the screams of terrified Men was an unnatural stillness. Legolas's mind cried for caution, making him more convinced than ever that the Shadow lurked still in the haunted city of Osgiliath.

As they drew closer to the command post, Legolas heard footsteps, heavy boots of maybe ten men clattering upon stone. When Eowyn heard the noise a few seconds after him, she tightened her hold on his hand, drawing closer to his side. She, he supposed, had no way of knowing that Sauron's wraith-servants would never make such a terrible racket upon approaching a target. Men could never be mistaken for the Nine to Elven hearing.

"It's all right," Legolas assured her in a soft voice.

Sure enough, less than thirty seconds later, they bumped into the noisy Human patrol, which consisted of Faramir and nine others Legolas had never seen before.

"Legolas," the man greeted somewhat coldly. He had not forgotten what this Elf had just hours ago done to his father. Still, he was a soldier endeavouring to protect his besieged home so he shoved any personal issues he had with Legolas aside for the time being and asked, "Have you seen any sign of them? You aware of all that's been happening?"

"Of course. And, no, I have seen no sign of them this deep within the city."

"It is the creatures of Shadow."

"Yes, I have seen, as I just said. Where is Aragorn?"

"I have not seen him," Faramir admitted, looking around himself, on edge still. He'd remain so until he was certain beyond any doubt that the Shadow had left Osgiliath in peace.

"What of Eomer or Jecha?"

Faramir rolled his eyes in irritation, snapping, "I am hardly in a position to know the exact location of every one of your men."

"Then may I request that one of your patrol escort Lady Eowyn to a place of safety?"

The Steward's son looked to the blonde woman at Legolas' side as if seeing her for the first time. "Why is she with you?" he then demanded angrily of Legolas. Really the Elf should know better than to bring a young woman with limited battle skills out onto the exposed streets during an invasion by their most hated enemy. "What were you thinking?"

Legolas had neither the time nor the patience to explain to Faramir that it had not been his intention to put Eowyn in any position considered dangerous.

"Take her some place safe." He nudged her forward and she went willingly to the patrol.

"Where are you going?" Faramir demanded of him as he moved past.

"To find Aragorn."

"I'm sure he's fine hiding out somewhere."

"Even so…"

"Legolas, we need men patrolling the streets."

Turning to face Faramir so that he was walking backwards now, Legolas smiled, "I'm sure you'll manage just fine without me."

Faramir looked to his fellow soldiers for help in this matter but as his gaze roved over them they all turned their eyes to the ground, feet shuffling. None of them were going to contradict the Elf's wishes because none of them particularly wanted him with them on patrol, no matter what his battle skills were. They were a little bit afraid of him.

Rolling his eyes at the reaction of his following warriors, Faramir turned back but Legolas was already a fair distance from him, not waiting for Faramir's permission to leave, already being swallowed up by the greyness clinging to the city.

"Legolas," the man hissed in warning. Wandering alone with those Shadow creatures roaming around searching for something to condemn to Darkness was foolish.

But Legolas ignored the hushed request to return and Faramir had more important things to do than worry over the Elf. Uttering a foul curse in his head only, he turned away again, gave a swift order to one of his men to escort Eowyn into the command post where she'd be safe, then finally signalled his patrol onwards.

Legolas, meanwhile, increased his pace to where he had left Aragorn the night before. He met no other patrols or any of the Enemy on the route. If Faramir had any tactical sense he'd have spread his men throughout the city so it wasn't so surprising that Legolas saw no further sign of them. Not that he actively looked for them. All he really cared about was finding Aragorn.

He found the house where Aragorn had rested the night before with ease. It remained standing, which was a relief. And yet, as he approached, the sense of relief fled him to be replaced with a deep panic. The door was shattered, smashed in and the place reeked of Darkness. Drawing his knife, Legolas approached boldly. He stepped over and around the remains of the door, moving quickly through the main room, which looked as though a fierce storm had blown through decimating the place in its path, and into the back room where Legolas had left his ward in the wake of his nightmare.

In truth, he had half expected them to be there but it still came as somewhat of a shock seeing the black-robed creatures looming in the room, filling up the space, now rank with the stench of menace and Darkness.

Freezing instantly, the exiled prince of Mirkwood stared for a long moment. And they, in turn, stared back. Through dark hoods nothing was visible but as they straightened from their search to face Legolas they seemed quizzical.

Legolas found himself torn between being stricken with terror and relieved at their lingering presence; if they remained it meant that they had not yet found what they'd come for. It meant Aragorn yet lived.

He was not sure how much time had passed.

It seemed so bizarre. He was engaged in a stand-off with the Wraiths of Mordor. Who would make the first move?

The Wraiths could have easily overpowered him. He was a lone Elf bearing just a long knife with no backup set to charge in as reinforcements and they were creatures of Shadow. Legolas guessed that what they were debating was whether it was worth keeping alive for interrogation purposes or whether it would be better to simply swat this irritating fly. It was doubtless that the Nine recalled the previous battle with this Elf years ago. They had suffered a humiliating defeat and despite the fact that they appeared little but empty clothing, Legolas sensed that they felt the sting of pride. Legolas had no way of knowing whether these two were at the cave where Kinnale had lost his life, whether they were the ones who's been sent running away, robes ablaze. It did not matter. Nine they may have been, but they were also as One. Defeat for the individual meant defeat for all and that could not abide.

The Elf made the decision first. Presented with a fight he knew he could not win, he took a slow step backwards then made a dash for the door. Staring Death in the face made him quick and he'd fled the building, barring the doors before the wretched Wraiths had swept across the room, startled at the sudden movement.

Aragorn was not in the place Legolas had left him, which left only two possibilities: he'd escaped before the Wraiths found him or he'd already been captured. The second possibility was so terrifying that it almost paralysed him halfway across the square during his desperate sprint for cover. So, for comfort's sake, he decided to believe the former.

Aragorn, too had met the Nazgul before and Legolas had warned him of them often. When he'd learned of the siege, he'd have sought out the others, joined them in securing the city, maybe taken up with one of the patrols Faramir had sent. Or maybe, just maybe, the boy had done the sensible thing and hidden away. Legolas almost cracked a smile at that. As if his ward would quail from danger.

Legolas threw himself into an empty house just as the Wraiths came smoothly out into the square, massive heads moving side to side as if sniffing the air for their prey. The Elf ran on, feet silent even on cracked floorboards. He went through the rooms until he found the back door. Twice more he repeated this procedure, moving surreptitiously through the town, seeking to put distance between himself and the agents of Shadow. He could not see the Wraiths but he could feel them. They were close. And he ran, moving as a shadow himself, through the gloomy streets and desolate houses.

Drawing nearer to the heart of town, although that had not been his intention, he had no destination in mind, Legolas found himself throwing open one door only to be thrown to the ground by strong hands fisted around his jacket front whilst his hand was slammed hard against cracked floorboards until his knife flew from his hand and skidded over the wood.

At least these were not Wraith hands holding him down. They were strong but not vice-like and they did not burn to touch. No, they were undoubtedly Human hands.

"Stop! Stop it!" Legolas shouted in irritation as opposed to fear as the man leaned on him, yelling something indistinguishable in his panic. "Would you stop! Open your eyes! I am not your enemy!"

Slowly, realisation dawned on the man and he ceased his shouting long enough to hear what Legolas was saying. Blinking down, the man realised that indeed this was no Orc or Wraith, he was one of them. The man leapt to his feet and backed away as if Legolas might jump up and strike out at them.

It was a wise decision.

Legolas got smoothly to his feet and even as he bent to retrieve his knife the tirade was set loose.

"What were you thinking?! One man attacking a Wraith! Had I been one of them you would already be dead! What are you even doing here?"

"Hiding, sir."

Before Legolas could unleash another blast of anger on the impetuous Human, movement caught his eye. The man was not alone. Others had chosen this house to hide in too. No doubt they had scattered when the Nazgul attacked. Faramir's patrols had probably shepherded the panicking people into the central building so they could form a perimeter, encasing the innocents within the roving patrols. A clever strategy that protected Osgiliath's vulnerable.

"Are they still here?" the trembling man asked of him.

"Yes," Legolas replied in a whisper. "They're here."

He went to the window and peered out onto the street. No sign of the creatures. Prowling the city, Legolas thought, maybe searching for him or maybe having had enough of him in lieu of finding far more valuable prey. Aragorn.

"Have you seen Aragorn anywhere?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"No. It was chaos when the attack came. I know he has not been here."

"Damn it. He could be anywhere. How many other houses are occupied?"

"I don't know. Why are they here?"

Legolas sighed softly, watching the street. "For him."

"For Aragorn?"

"Yes."

"Why? Because…" The man looked about himself uncertainly then continued in a far softer voice, "Because he's king?"

Surprised, Legolas turned to the man. He was Gondorian, without a doubt, not one of the Rohirrim that had travelled with Aragorn since Edoras, and yet he now spoke of Aragorn as the King. Reluctantly, for sure, and yet he now used the word 'king' to describe Aragorn. That had to count for something amongst the people of Gondor. Legolas found himself filled with pride and a small amount of relief.

"Yes," Legolas finally answered, "because he is king. The Dark Lord fears him greatly and seeks to destroy him before he has the chance to untie this bond between Aragorn and the Men of Gondor."

"I have not seen him."

"Right." The Elf glanced outside again, finding the street clear. He shoved away from the window and weaved amongst the people in the hideout, heading for the front door.

"Wait. Where are you going?" demanded the man, sounding panicked again, he grabbed Legolas' arm.

"I have to find the king before they do."

"You're just going to leave us here?"

"Keep low and quiet and you'll be fine."

"How do you know that? What if they come here?"

"Do not attempt to tackle them to the ground," chuckled the Elf. More seriously, he instructed, "So long as you remain quiet and don't get in their way I doubt they'll bother you. They came here for the king."

"If you really think so."

Legolas nodded, glancing outside once again to ensure that no dark shapes roamed this part of the street. Then he stepped outside, closing the door firmly behind him to ensure the house remained as secure as possible. It was an empty gesture though. The Wraiths would not be halted by wood and bolts.

**To Be Continued…**


	63. The Time Of Kings

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 63 – The Time of Kings**

For the rest of that fateful day, when the Wraiths of Mordor stalked the streets of Osgiliath causing chaos wherever they went, Aragorn patrolled with the Gondorian Men he had been assigned to earlier in the day. Faramir had set up twenty separate patrols to work their way methodically through the city, securing the people of Osgiliath as well as searching for the Enemy who were presumably still stalking around – although if they were then they remained unseen as no calls had gone up for aid as Faramir had commanded. Plenty of civilians were found, scattered and confused in the wake of the attack, but Aragorn saw not a single sign of the Wraiths.

Truthfully, his primary motivation for seeking to join the patrol was selfish: to assure himself that the Nazgul were not anywhere near. He felt that they had left but he had to be sure or he knew he would not be able to rest easy.

He worked easily alongside his assigned patrol, including three Gondorian soldiers and Ciaran of the Rangers. The patrol was commanded by Jecha, who since they'd met in the square at the start of the attack had yet to leave the king's side even for a moment, his weapon never once sheathed. But Aragorn found himself distracted from his duty. He understood why the Wraiths had come, even if no one would speak the truth around him. People of Osgiliath, citizens, soldiers had died for him. Just as he had always feared would happen. For he knew that the Wraiths had devastated the peace in Osgiliath for him.

In his pocket, the small band of gold still felt impossibly heavy, more so than it had in a long time. Whilst one hand held his Elven-blessed sword at the ready, the other rested at his side, above the searing gold. The thought that this was what the Wraiths had come for turned Aragorn's stomach, even more so than the notion that innocents had been injured in the attack. How could he now lose this thing most precious to him, this weapon that could change the fortunes of Men in the final battle? On a more personal level, he did not want to be parted from the Ring of Power. It was a great gift bestowed upon him by his sire. He would die before he allowed it to fall into Enemy hands.

"Aragorn, are you all right?"

He had not even realised he'd stumbled until a steadying hand appeared at his elbow. Dazed, he raised confused eyes to Jecha.

"Yes." His voice sounded oddly distant, even to him.

Jecha had not been convinced as he'd moved to Aragorn's front, both hands resting on the man's upper arms, peering into his face as though searching for something not immediately obvious.

"What's going on?" asked one of the Gondorian men wondering what the hold-up was.

"I don't know. Aragorn?"

Jecha was worried. He had never seen Aragorn this way before: detached as if he did not understand what was happening around him. Gripping Aragorn's shoulders, Jecha shook the king hard, searching for a reaction.

He got one.

"What?!" Aragorn shouted at him so violently that the Easterling took a staggering step backwards. "What do you want?! Can I not be allowed one moment of peace?!"

"My apologies, sir," Jecha said, still uncertain of what exactly had just transpired between them. "I was merely concerned."

"I'm fine."

"You're shaking, Aragorn."

Slowly, prompted by the observation, the man looked down at himself and saw that what Jecha said was indeed true. His whole body trembled as though he had been immersed in icy water, although the temperature outside was moderate at the moment. He couldn't understand why he trembled so violently, couldn't comprehend his reaction. No danger pricked at his senses. No Wraiths lurked nearby. And yet, he shook as if he had just come face to face with his worst enemy. Sweat trickled hotly down his brow and he raised his hand to wipe at it. In his hand though, he still held Anduril. His other hand, he realised, was still buried in his left jacket pocket, balled into a fist so tight that it ached and shook. Red hot heat seared at his palm and he almost cried out loud. But he could not easily release it.

Heart pounding wildly, Aragorn could see nothing but darkness for a seemingly endless moment. Every one of his senses was focused on this one thing, this small trinket that was his and his alone. Creatures of pure evil were seeking it out, looking for it and for him but he would not relinquish his great gift, not even under pain of death. It was his.

"Aragorn! Answer me! Tell me what is wrong."

Jecha was calling to him again, loud and worried. The only way to get the Easterling to quieten down was to answer.

"Nothing's wrong," he murmured non-committedly through barely parted lips, which were worryingly pale. "I'm fine."

"Should I fetch a healer maybe?" offered one of the Gondorian men, partially concerned, partially irritated that the patrol of the north quarter his Captain had ordered had ground to a halt.

"No, we are returning to the command post." Aragorn was not ill, Jecha knew instinctively. He didn't need a healer and even if he did then Jecha was determined that the young king would not remain in the potentially dangerous streets of Osgiliath.

"Command post? No, we have to sweep the streets."

"Fine. You continue to do that. We're going back," Jecha told them in no uncertain terms. He took Aragorn by the arm, gentler this time like he was worried of causing irreparable damage if his grip was a might too hard. "Come Aragorn."

Aragorn's head shook, once left, once right, clearing away the thick fog of Shadow that had shrouded his mind briefly. He finally got up the strength to release his grip on the small ring of hot gold in his pocket. When the Ring dropped back into the depths of his pocket, he released a great gust of air from his mouth, not having realised that he had been holding his breath this whole time. Dizziness washed over him suddenly but only briefly. Soon, he'd regained some semblance of control over himself and he forced himself to focus on Jecha again, who was now stood before him, still trying to coax him to start moving back to the centre of Osgiliath.

"No. I'm fine. I'm all right," Aragorn reassured, a little more convincing than he had sounded before. He pulled his hand out from his jacket pocket with some effort; it shook uncontrollably and blood seeped from a thin crescent shaped cut on his palm where the edges of the Ring had cut into his thin flesh. It was a small wound, insignificant, and yet it burned, stung and what it represented made his heart pound all the harder.

"Aragorn?"

Wiping his bloodied palm against his already stained trousers, Aragorn smiled shakily.

"Let's go."

After sharing a bemused glance with his fellow patrolmen, Jecha hurried after the already retreating king, his footsteps loud on the otherwise deserted street. "Wait! Aragorn, wait!" When the younger man did not halt, Jecha hustled forward enough to snatch his arm, drawing him to a halt. "Don't you think you should sit down for a moment? Explain what happened."

"Nothing happened. Come, we'll return to the central command building."

"We're going back?" one of the soldiers asked in confusion at the king's sudden change of heart.

Aragorn turned back to gaze at the barely lit streets, lost within his own thoughts for a moment. Vaguely, he replied, "Yes. The Nazgul are no longer here."

All the Gondorian soldiers who'd been unlucky enough to be assigned to this patrol were getting increasingly weary of the two mercurial newcomers. Neither could decide what they wanted to do whilst both seemed to be vying for the command. It was infuriating and confusing and the soldiers were starting to get fed up with it.

So, shifting irritably on his feet, the boldest of the soldiers demanded in a strong voice, "How could you possibly know that?"

By his side, Aragorn's fingers twitched as he fought to keep them from seeking out the ring of gold in his pocket. "I can feel it."

"Perfect!" exclaimed the man sarcastically.

Unwilling to wait any longer for the uncertain Gondorians to make up their minds, Aragorn again started walking away. Over his shoulder, he called back, "Continue if you want. Up to you."

Of course, Jecha was always going to follow his king even if he didn't know for sure that Aragorn's assumptions about the passing of the danger were correct. The men of Osgiliath were not so loyal yet, however. They worked on the orders of the Captain of the city and through him on the orders of their Steward. And Faramir's orders had been clear – to make safe the city and search out the intruders. Ciaran too had sworn to aid all he could in protecting Osgiliath so he remained with the patrol, sending Aragorn an apologetic look as the man left.

So, Aragorn and Jecha were alone in walking back through the streets of Osgiliath, making for the command post. It was empty when they reached it. All the guards, including Faramir himself, were still out patrolling and Denethor was presumably somewhere safe recovering from Legolas' earlier attack. Where the Council were hiding was anybody's guess. Probably cowering safely away from the action, Jecha thought bitterly as he cast his eyes over the empty meeting table.

The tavern was dark, the fires had been extinguished long ago but neither man made to light them again, more than used to the cold and darkness that engulfed the building. Aragorn thought that the light of the flames would seem more foreign to him than the dismal grey hues of the world. So, they sat in darkness on the chairs surrounding the scarred conference table. Nothing was said. Neither could think of anything suitable. In truth though, Aragorn would have preferred some conversation to break up the tension. The silence left him ample time to think upon the coming of the Nazgul and the thing that they had come for. He did not want to dwell upon that so after a while, he got up to pace up and down the room simply for something to occupy himself.

Legolas came to them before any other. He stormed in through the door, breathless from running, to find Aragorn by the window and Jecha reclined neatly in one of the hard-backed chairs. Both men looked up at his uncharacteristically blundering entrance.

Naturally, Legolas' first and only concern was for his ward.

"Are you all right?" the Elf demanded somewhat brusquely, breathing heavily, eyes already seeking out any potential point of injury on his ward.

"Yes."

"I have been looking for you. Where have you been?"

"Patrolling with Jecha."

Legolas' gaze travelled to the seated Easterling and the man raised his hand elegantly in greeting.

"Have you seen them?"

Aragorn looked once at Jecha and then back at his guardian. No need to ask to whom Legolas was referring. "Only once. We saw them circling above. They are gone now," he answered softly.

"I know. What of Faramir; has he come back here?"

"Not since we arrived," it was Jecha who answered this time.

"Someone should inform him that the threat has passed."

Both sets of eyes moved to the Easterling and he got up from his chair with no effort at all, stretching out his lithe body. "I suppose that is me," he said in a falsely cheerful voice, going towards the door where Legolas stood. Pulling the Elf aside a little way, Jecha whispered so that Aragorn couldn't hear. "Something is wrong, Legolas. He does not look himself."

Legolas followed Jecha's gaze to his ward. He knew what was wrong without even asking.

"I'll take care of it, thank you."

What could he say? With Jecha off in search of the Captain of Osgiliath, Legolas found himself alone with his young ward and he knew what had to be done and yet he could not dig up the words. It was not simply that the Ring was a touchy subject for both of them, although it was indeed the touchiest of subjects, but also Legolas couldn't help but feel that he had lost a good deal of faith in Aragorn's eyes. Never had he pretended to hold any kind of good opinion of himself but ever since he'd dragged Aragorn and Arathorn into the clearing near where Arathorn had spent his final moments, he'd known that Aragorn looked up to him, sought his advice and respect in equal measure. But now…

Legolas sighed heavily and moved to sit in one of the creaky old chairs that sat mismatched around the table. He was weary. Ground down by lack of sleep and his recent encounter with the Voice of Evil, his thoughts wandered to Bree of all places, those few days they had rested amidst the confusion in the old Inn, thought of the kindly barman whose name he could no longer recall, of the straw mattress he had slept in but once during his stay. His mind turned then to the taken city of Minas Tirith, to the splendour that it had once radiated. He had never seen it at its peak under the rule of Men but he could imagine it clearly in his mind. And then there was Osgiliath. Cold and ruined under the constant threat of the Shadow. The cities of Men were not all that he had thought them. He'd told Aragorn many times on their travels that amongst Men they would find their salvation and yet so far they had found nothing but trouble. Allies were all very well but what was the point if their endgame remained unattainable?

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

Aragorn's voice startled the Elf from his meandering thoughts and his head snapped upright. Grey eyes, hard through the dull light of day, were fixed upon him, waiting.

Slapping his hands down on his thighs, a soft sign of defeat, Legolas rocked back in his chair and fixed his eyes upon his ward. "What would you like me to say?"

He'd never been able to hold that intense blue stare so Aragorn shifted his own back outside to safer territory. "Why did you do that to the Steward?"

"Faramir told you about that?"

"Eomer. We need him to be on our side, we needed his trust. I need his trust. And you…Why?"

"I barely laid a hand on him."

"But you said something, didn't you?" He looked back to his guardian, expression a mixture of demand and pleading. He didn't want to have to do this but he had to all the same. Possibly, Eomer or Jecha, or Faramir even, had instructed him that it was what was required of him. This was a king's duty. "Legolas?"

"I spoke the truth, nothing more."

"The truth about what?"

"About him, Aragorn. About what he is."

"What is he? What did you say? Tell me."

"I called him a coward, which is indeed what he is. It is about time you realised that, Aragorn. You are a better man than he could ever hope to be and I pray that you know that. Why should that worthless man sit upon your throne, rule_ your_ people?"

"My throne is apparently within Minas Tirith, overrun by the Shadow, if you recall," said Aragorn acidly.

"Metaphorical throne then. You know what I mean."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Fight! I want you to fight for what is rightfully yours! That Steward is nothing but your servant now and he has overstayed his welcome in your place."

Aragorn had resumed his pacing, restless again. "So, what, I just kick the old man to the ground and step over his limp body to get to my throne and hope that his loyal people eventually, miraculously come around to my way of thinking?" he shouted, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Yes!" Legolas shouted in reply, startling the man. "Yes, that's exactly what you should be doing! Do you think I brought you all this way so that you could give up at the final hurdle? Denethor will not bring to an end that which I have fought so hard to bring about. He must not be allowed to push you aside because of his own ignorance and pride. I will not allow it! Rule of Gondor belongs to you! You believed that before you came here. What has changed in the interim?"

Silence. Aragorn ceased walking and stared long and hard at his guardian; flummoxed, it seemed, by the simple question. For long minutes, he did not speak and Legolas did not seek to push him. Aragorn hated it when his guardian did nothing to help him along and it always seemed to happen when he most needed guidance.

Finally, anger long since deflated, Aragorn sat himself down with a sigh, despairing, and ran his hands through his hair.

"I don't know," he answered at last, his voice cracking somewhat at the admission. "I don't know." He sounded defeated and as tired as Legolas felt.

His guardian looked at him, unwavering, as he asked frankly, "Do you not?"

It struck him; he did know. It was a small, innocuous-looking ring of pure gold that he carried hidden deep in his pocket. It was the influence of the Shadow, those tendrils of Darkness creeping over him ever more by the moment, threatening to choke him or drag him towards the path of Evil. That corruption tainted him and he feared what it would mean in the end. By taking the throne of Gondor now with this uncertainty hanging all around him, was he not only placing his people in harm's way through his own weakness?

"He's close."

"Not this again," Legolas breathed in irritation, much to Aragorn shock.

"Excuse me?"

"Stop with the excuses!" No subtlety this time.

"What? I don't…"

"Yes, he's close. I know it, Aragorn. I feel it too. And I know the burden you bear even if I can't understand it and I am truly, truly sorry that you are forced to carry it. But you cannot allow it to rule you. It is what he wants. You must stand up to him, as you have been doing all this time. Do not surrender to him. Do not fear him."

"That's easy for you to say."

"No, Aragorn, it is not easy. In case you haven't noticed, I am standing right at your side. If he takes you, he takes me too. That is a given. It is what I have always known. And I fear it, Aragorn. More so each day."

"I can't," Aragorn wailed, flopping down into a chair and clasping his hands tightly between his knees, eyes downcast. "I don't know what to do."

"Yes, you do. You've known since we first arrived here. We didn't come for Osgiliath. A provincial city is as worthless to us as it is to Sauron himself. Minas Tirith is the prize. Take that and give the Dark Lord something to lose sleep over. It's the last stepping stone to Mordor, all that stands between us and freedom. You know all of this, Aragorn, and yet still you hesitate. Why?"

"I'm afraid."

"Of what? Death? Him? Fear neither, Aragorn. You are king and there is too much at stake for you to be disrupted by fear."

"How?" Aragorn asked, watery eyes seeking comfort from his guardian's once more steady gaze. "How is it to be done?"

"Muster those of Gondor, tell Eomer to ready the Rohirrim. The Rangers have been with you from the start, they'll follow you now to whatever end. And, with those allied by your side, unleash the wrath of Men upon the White City. Take it back from the Shadow; place the city back in the hands of Men where it belongs."

Aragorn was shaking his head before Legolas had even finished. "The city is completely overrun and we do not have the loyalty of Gondor's people and since you near-incapacitated the Steward, we're not likely to."

"Tell them to reclaim their city and they will follow you."

"To their deaths?"

"Yes."

"Why would they?"

"Because you are their king."

"They don't believe that to be true."

"They will!"

"Stop saying that!" Aragorn yelled suddenly, explosively, his hand sweeping out impulsively to send a candle and its holder from the table between them clattering noisily to the floor. "I'm tired of hearing it. Everything is not simply going to fall into place. And I don't know how to make it work, Legolas! I don't!" Legolas made no response as Aragorn resumed his restless jaunt around the tavern's room. He knew that his ward had to walk off his excess energy before the discussion could continue in a more reasonable fashion. True to form, Aragorn's demeanour was calmer when he spoke next. In fact, he sounded rather wistful. "Remember when you were tutoring me, as my father instructed you to?" At Legolas' short nod, the man continued, "Well, I want that old Legolas back with me. Tell me what to do. Please."

Legolas sighed heavily, wearily, and replied around it, "I already have. You're just not listening to me. I cannot do this for you, Aragorn, even if I wished to."

"Why not? You were a leader, a great commander amongst the Elves so Erestor of Imladris told me once. That's more of a qualification than I can claim."

"Amongst the Elves once, maybe. But not in the eyes of these Men. They would not listen to me, would not follow me to whatever end as they would you. I think Eomer has proven that to be true countless times already." Legolas smiled softly but Aragorn didn't seem to find any humour in it. He remained staring at Legolas, eyes pleading and hopeful. "I am sorry, child."

"I don't want this."

"I do understand your reluctance. Never think I do not."

Finally having exhausted all his energies, Aragorn lowered himself into a chair. When he next spoke he sounded probably more defeated than Legolas had ever heard him. "Sometimes, I wish we'd never left the Old Forest Road. I wish we could spend our days wandering aimlessly around familiar territory with no troubles or responsibilities."

"I did warn you. You were quite insistent, as I recall."

"You don't have to keep reminding me."

The hush that fell was a little more comfortable than it had been previously. Both were simply tired, no longer angry. It would not remain quiet for long though. Soon Faramir would return, bringing his guards along with him because he would not wish to be in the same room as Legolas without a couple of burly guards after the incident with Denethor. Then things were bound to get very loud soon.

"Very well," Aragorn agreed at last around a sigh. "I suppose we…_I _should speak with Faramir."

**IOIOI**

His most loyal servant had failed to return to him. His voice, his only connection to the world he ruled over had been severed, albeit temporarily, from him and the loss upset him greatly. He had not the energy to pace despite his restlessness. Despite the best efforts of the Wizard and the strength of the Elf he had taken, this latest host body was fast failing, just as the others had done before it. But he could not afford to take another just because of his discomfort. According to his wardens, there was but one solitary host Elf left available to him in his dungeons and even that one was fading. Of course, he could always recall the White Wizard to his service, get him to patch up one of his past vessels enough to make it reasonably fit for his use or maybe strengthen the body of a Man or Dwarf but he despised the idea of recycling the empty weakened husks of the Elves and the thought of inhabiting the hairy, stumpy body of one of the Dwarven race make him sick. And Men, they were simply too weak to contain his splendour for more than a few hours. He cringed behind the shadow of his hood. As if it wasn't bad enough that he was forced to muddy himself with the spirits of the lower orders in the first place.

Damn this wretched curse!

Bound to Mordor by necessity brought about by the weakness of his hosts, he needed his Voice. But the Nine had instead taken the injured, defeated creature back to the home Sauron had gifted to them at Minas Morgul.

The cursed guardian of the Human King had hurt him, so the reports from his spies told him. One of Sauron's own struck down by the hand of a mere Elf. It was unseemly. Infuriating.

Anger boiled in his heart, roiling and bubbling until he wanted to scream to purge himself of it.

This was too much.

It had not even been the King of Men, as he proclaimed himself to be, that had struck down his most valuable acolyte. It was the pesky Guardian.

Sauron lowered his head to the sound of steadily dripping liquid against stone. His hand unclenched when he realised that he'd drawn blood from his palm so tight was his fist. For a moment, diverted, he stared with interest at the glistening crimson on his grey flagstone floor. Blood. Interesting. He could not recall ever having bled before. So tortured was the body he now walked around in that he felt no sting of pain through the endless, relentless anguish. Into his mind popped the image of one of the wretched Firstborn, the one who had hurt him so personally, the one, the only one, who had drawn blood from the veins of the Dark Lord, perhaps even one who looked just like the creature his spirit now possessed, bleeding the same thick liquid. A fleeting smile crossed his lips before it curved downwards into a grimace as he fought the urge to claw at this wretched face, this mask he wore.

He did not want to look like one of them anymore. He wanted freedom. His whole disembodied being craved for it, coveted it, almost to the point of being unendurable. He pictured the smug smile of satisfaction the Guardian must now be wearing upon that fair face at the notion of spilling the rich blood of the Shadow Lord and he clenched his hands again as a further disincentive to defacing the form he possessed. No. That would not do. Better to rip off the face of the Guardian instead. That would be infinitely more satisfying.

This thought brought a sense of peace washing over him.

He was not powerless yet. In fact, he had gained much.

It had taken mere moments of the Nine's coming to the City of Stars for Sauron to feel it through them. The Ring had been tantalisingly close. And yet, they had failed to return it to him. In truth though, he was not overly worried. Ever would the Ring return to him. It was loyal to but one master. Whether through the false king or by other means, it would find its way back to its rightful owner in time and then Sauron would have no reason to fear anything.

Calm infused his tortured soul for a spell. Not everything had come completely unravelled yet. Some things remained nicely on track. Perhaps the One would bring him the boy as well.

What a great victory that would be. Two great accomplishments and he would at long last be free of all constraints. Nothing could stand in his way. Middle Earth would be, for once and for all, indisputably, his.

No point in simply hoping, however. Yes, it had been a small defeat to lose one of his loyal servants but he would not dwell on the disappointment.

Now was the time for action.

Another smile bloomed on pale lips, thin, cracked and weak. The Guardian would rue the day he ever thought to tangle with the Shadow.

And the boy, he would not be allowed to become complacent in his position. Let him and his foolish band of followers feel what the true wrath of Mordor felt like. The time for games was over. Now the war could be ended.

**OIOI**

Never had the city of Osgiliath been so quiet. Not one living soul walked the streets. Only the distant combined rumblings of Minas Tirith and Mordor itself underscored the ominous hush. A low mist had settled all around the city, covering the Anduin, the Mountains and the Pelennor. It was horribly claustrophobic, this endless white-out. Mists had rolled off of the river, obscuring the view from all sides early that morning and it simply would not clear.

It was into this gloom that Legolas now stared, trying to keep his breathing slow and steady as irrational fear of suffocation assailed his mind. He was staring out at the White City, or where he knew the White City to be. He wondered whether its inhabitants were feeling the same oppression. Probably not, he reasoned. The foul filth of Mordor probably rejoiced in it.

He sighed and his long breath joined the mist in the still air, stirring it briefly before becoming lost in the haze. The fires burning all around the brazen, foolish city of Osgiliath only added to the pollution in the air and Legolas stifled a cough when the taste of smoke filled his throat. All that had happened and the people of Gondor could not be dissuaded from lighting up their city with fires and candles. They saw it as comfort. As though blanketed in light nothing could touch them. Not only was it wasteful but Legolas now feared that the Shadow would see it as an open invitation to attack. He knew that the coming of the Nazgul would not be the end of it. They had been forced back into the Darkness but there would always be consequences. What exactly they would be, Legolas didn't yet know, but they frightened him all the same.

Aragorn's footsteps were loud on the street; he made no attempt to conceal his approach. In fact, he seemed to be purposefully stomping his feet to announce his coming. Legolas smiled thinly. His ward was not pleased and he wanted all around to know it.

"How was it?"

"How do you think it was? It was a funeral ceremony." Legolas nodded at the tart tone taken by his ward. He felt like he probably deserved it. "People were upset. Not much was said. Just as you might expect."

"Maybe they couldn't think of anything good to say."

"Don't speak like that."

"Apologies."

Aragorn joined his repentant guardian by the wall against which he was leant and continued to softly admonish, "You shouldn't speak ill of the dead."

"Did Faramir teach you that?"

"Maybe. No matter what his past crimes or his faults, Denethor was their Steward and they loved him in their way. You shouldn't mock or make light of their grief."

"I was not mocking it, Aragorn. I am truly sorry for his passing."

"Are you?"

Legolas shifted his gaze to his left, to Aragorn. The man looked tired. Sad. It startled Legolas that his ward was feeling the grief so acutely.

"Are you all right?"

"Is this what you wanted?" Aragorn asked bluntly in response.

"Excuse me?"

"When you spoke to Denethor that night, did you have some clue, some inkling, that he might do this?"

"Are you suggesting that I prodded him to take his own life?"

"No."

"Are you honestly saying that I drove him to his death?"

"No!" Aragorn exclaimed in horror when he realised what he had implied before his guardian. "I'm not saying that, Legolas!"

"Good, because I would never do anything so terrible. Yes, I thought the Steward a fool, misguided, cowardly, even, but I did not wish him dead. The opposite, in fact. I wanted him to fight for his life and the freedom of his people. I told him as much when I spoke to him."

Aragorn nodded, satisfied with the answer. "I am sorry for doubting you."

"And I am sorry, too, for Denethor's passing."

"Faramir is taking it hard."

"I'd imagine."

"I offered Valon up to take a look at him but he refused."

"He is grieving, nothing more. It will pass."

"How can you be so cold?!" the man suddenly exploded angrily with a shake of his head. "The man is dead and his son is distraught and you don't care at all!"

Legolas stared into turbulent grey eyes for long moments, trying to understand what was so upsetting his ward. Then it struck him. Aragorn was right. He didn't care. He felt no sadness, no regret, that Denethor had taken his own life. He felt only a mild tinge of pity for Faramir who had been unfortunate enough to discover his father laid on the floor of his room in a pool of his own blood that had spilled from wrists split with a blade. He would have spared the young man that, were it possible.

"I do care, Aragorn. Very much," he lied, not wanting the man to see this side of him, of which he was ashamed. "But I will not stand before the Steward's pyre and feign sadness."

"Feign sadness? So you do feel nothing?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters!" the man yelled, making Legolas startle in shock.

"Aragorn."

"I just can't…I can't understand you. But then I suppose I never have, have I?" He sounded defeated, tired. Hardly surprising; it had been a long, stressful week for the young king.

"Did you speak with Faramir about…?"

"Don't! Don't ask that! Now that, not now!"

Legolas flinched; it was not the question to ask to disprove the coldness that his disillusioned ward had seen in him. But he had to push the subject for Aragorn had been idling over it ever since the Wraiths had come to Osgiliath.

"Aragorn, you need to talk to him."

Now? His father just died, Legolas. Can't we just…"

"All the more reason to move things along. He is Steward now."

"I…" Aragorn turned away but stayed put and started again, "I can't do this now."

"Aragorn…"

"Aragorn."

The man turned at the sound of Faramir's voice; face a picture of guilt, worried at how much the son of Denethor had heard of his conversation with Legolas. Certainly, the blonde man's face was thunderous but that could just as easily have been a reaction to Legolas' mere presence. Faramir had no qualms in placing the blame for his father's death squarely upon Legolas' shoulders. And Legolas stood before him, unrepentant.

"Faramir, how are you?" Aragorn asked lamely just to break the tension.

Eyes still locked with Legolas' as if in battle, Faramir replied, "Can I talk with you?"

"Of course. About what?"

"In private."

Legolas made no comment at this obvious slight towards him and his exclusion, certain as he was that a part of Faramir had wanted to provoke a reaction that would justify the anger he felt.

"Yes."

Aragorn moved past the Gondorian man, waiting to lead him away but also positioned to hold back the newly named Steward should he make an attempt to attack Legolas, which, from the expression on his face, seemed extremely likely. However, Faramir did not go for the Elf, merely pinned him with an impressively icy glare, then followed Aragorn beyond the Elf's sight into the mist.

**OIOI**

"A truce?"

"An alliance," corrected Faramir in a definitive tone to the mumbled complaints of his gathered Council.

"Sir," one of the men leaned forward into the table so he could catch the Steward's attention, "are you so sure of this course of action?" It was said condescendingly, as if the untested Steward were making such a blatant mistake on only his first day of command that it could not be ignored. "It might not be the wisest course."

"Yes. Of this I am certain." Blue-grey eyes roved around the packed meeting room. For the most part, it looked discomforted, uncertain, maybe even a little frightened by the prospect of Faramir, youngest son of the ever discontented Denethor, taking up his father's mantle as Steward and potentially changing everything the previous Steward had stood for. The Council liked order and Faramir was challenging that, threatening disorder by supporting the supposed king who had so recently come amongst them. "This is the path that I would take. I believe it to be right."

"But, my Lord Faramir, the late Lord Denethor had not…"

"I am not my father!" Silence fell at that declaration, a mixture of sympathetic and worried. Faramir relaxed somewhat at the hush. Anger would not help this transition go smoothly. So, he calmed his irritation at the unchangeable Council and settled his hands down on the smooth wood of the table before him. "In the wake of Denethor's rule, I must do what is best for you all and I believe that this is the best thing, not for myself or for the inflated egos of this Council, but for the people of Gondor. I think we can all agree that their needs must be met before anything else."

"Of course this is so, my Lord, but relinquishing the Stewardship…"

"Not relinquishing it. I am merely having this ancient birth-right work alongside the kingship of Gondor." He shot a glance in Aragorn's direction. The man had remained silent since the Council had been summoned to the command post on the eve of Denethor's funeral. Faramir had admired him for that, for not throwing around his weight and opinion in defence of the arrangement they had come to just a couple of hours previous. It strengthened his belief that this was the right thing to do and made him look slightly less threatening to the Council. "Together, we shall be all the stronger."

The Councillor who had, it seemed, been speaking for the whole room, now stood up, mirroring Faramir's stance at the top of the table only he had an uncertain smile upon thin, sneering lips.

"But you would be surrendering Gondor to, forgive me sir," he said, fleetingly and insincerely glancing in Aragorn's direction, "a mere, unproven child." Faramir trapped the old man with a long, hard stare and the Councillor chuckled somewhat uncomfortably under the deep gaze in an effort to take the edge off his comments. "I just want to hear that you fully understand what this entails. And that you are not being coerced or unduly influenced so soon after the passing of your…beloved father."

"I am not ignorant of what an alliance will mean. I have listened to all opinions, weighed up my choice calmly and thoroughly."

Another smile, as false and haughty as the last one came to the Councillor's face then and he cocked his head to the side in question as he asked, "Might I enquire, my Lord, as to what opinions you have been listening to? Because none of us gathered here," he swept his hand in an arch to all the Councillors gathered around the table, "were consulted on this most important of decisions."

"Gondor does not consist solely of this Council. I am doing this for my people and it is their opinions I consider to be the most important of all and those that I have listened to."

Again the Councillor smiled, as if the young Faramir had said something amusingly uneducated. "Due respect, my Lord, but are the people of Gondor really qualified to advise you in this matter?"

"You think not? And you are qualified, I suppose? You who have never held a weapon in conflict against the Shadow? Are you better positioned to decide than these soldiers who ceaselessly defend this kingdom?"

Faramir waited politely for a reply but the old man struggled. He stuttered, searching for a rebuke but Faramir knew that he would not come up with one and indeed a full minute later the Councillor returned to his seat with a flush of embarrassment on his gaunt, wrinkled cheeks. He'd just been outwitted by the child he had always dismissed as being rather too impolitic to take up the mantle of Steward. It was humiliating to lose to the lesser son of his trusted leader. He knew there was no going back now. His defeat would turn the Council to Faramir's way of thinking, for if their chief Councillor could not bring down the logic of Faramir's decision then they would consider his reasoning to be sound and fall in line.

The new Steward looked again around the table at its occupants. He had watched enough Council sessions headed by his father to know when they were in agreement and he fought back a smile at his achievement. No diplomacy, indeed! All the better that these men were the ones whom Denethor had charged with the tutelage of his sons.

"Are there any further objections?" he asked simply out of courtesy. There were none, the shaking of grey heads and the murmurs of consent told him. "Good." He shifted position slightly so that Aragorn was invited to join him at the table and the dark man obediently stepped forward to do so, included for the first time amongst the people of Gondor. "Then to my next decision. Aragorn has informed me of the allegiance to him of great allies, the details of which I will not share here, but nevertheless they are great and powerful confederates. With the forces of Men combined thusly, we have a rare opportunity." The Council appeared unsettled by this, like they sensed more of an upheaval coming to them this evening.

"Opportunity to do what, exactly?" asked their disgraced spokesman through clenched teeth.

Faramir fixed him with another intense stare to purposefully fill him with unease, then declared, "To take back Minas Tirith from the clutches of the Shadow."

Immediately, the respectful silence was abandoned in favour of complete uproar. The room erupted, just as he had expected it would, into chaos. Usually mild-mannered advisors leapt from their chairs, all objecting at once, denying what Faramir was saying, even suggesting that grief must surely be addling their young leader's mind. Faramir let the outraged din wash over him, holding his nerve, just as Aragorn was doing with rather better success at his side. Perhaps it was because the old Councillors had no expectations when it came to Aragorn as they did the younger son of the Steward that Faramir found it harder to hear their cries of consternation and speculative votes of no confidence. Or maybe Aragorn didn't care either way.

The yelling and protestations continued for far longer than Faramir had expected them to. There was no chance to reply to any of the random questions fired at him. Each was swallowed up in the cacophony but the men did not seem to care. In fact, the chaos only fuelled their anger. By the time the shouting had reached its apex, most were up on their feet, arguing now amongst themselves even though the consensus remained that Faramir's proposed plan to attack the White City and reclaim it in the name of Mankind was foolish at best and outright suicidal at worst.

"Well, this is going excellently," said Faramir sarcastically into Aragorn's ear so the words could be heard above the general roar of anger.

Although Aragorn nodded in grim agreement, he leaned over and replied reasonably, "It is to be expected. Let them vent their anger amongst themselves now, get it out of their systems."

"Very well," Faramir sighed wearily, lowering himself down into his chair.

It was some time after that before the Council quietened, running out of steam at long last. Full darkness had settled over Osgiliath before they reclaimed their seats. Hoarse murmurs of surprise that night was upon them rippled around the room and there was the occasional quiet apology or mumble of shame at the proceeding disorder.

"Are you all quite finished now?" Faramir demanded of them sternly, rising from his seat for the address. "Good." At least they had the sense to look apologetic even though no apology was offered out loud. To hung heads, Faramir admonished, "What good do you think this petty in-fighting will do us? What good has it ever done us? Look at where we are now. Weak, hiding from our own city, kept out by defences built by the hands of Men, our ancestors. No more. It is time we took back what is ours, time we stood up to the Shadow. Denethor knew this; deep down." His eyes went to Aragorn, stood straight and tall at his side. "And we know it to be true now. So, we shall reclaim Gondor, take back the White City."

"Forgive me, sir, but I must speak. This is madness!"

"It must seem that way, I know," Faramir replied calmly to the youngest member of the Council, still a man well into his sixties. "But we must do it all the same. We must try."

"No. We need not. Only death can come from this course."

At this very astute comment, Faramir bent his head down, eyes falling closed. This he had considered much during his somewhat fraught talk with the equally sorrowful Aragorn. It pained him that his people, some of them at least, would come to death by the plan he proposed.

"I know," he finally acknowledged, voice quiet in the hush that awaited his reply. Then he proudly raised his eyes to the Council. "But we must do what is right."

"Sir…"

"I am ordering that every man and woman who can take up arms be prepared for war."

"My Lord, you cannot be serious!"

"I am."

"You would send our women to their deaths? It is barbaric."

"They have as much cause to fight as any man. Perhaps they do not desire to stand by uselessly whilst their loved ones go out to fight. And if it is good enough for the Rohirrim and the Rangers then it should be good enough for us too."

"And when will this attack take place?" asked another advisor snidely.

"As soon as the preparations can be made. Weapons must be gathered, armour perfected, a detailed plan devised. Then we go into battle."

The Chief Councillor shook his head in disapproval, speaking up. "This is most unwise."

"And yet I am undeterred."

With pursed lips, the Councillor looked around. He knew his fellow dignitaries supported his objections but they would not speak out of turn. Once the ruler had declared a plan then it must be followed. The Stewardship still meant much to these people and Faramir held the title therefore he must be respected. However, the Councillor's eyes shifted around the anxious table, resting for slightly longer on the silent, dark haired man at Faramir's side.

He cleared his throat, shifted in his chair as though making himself comfortable before the upcoming distasteful task. "Might I speak freely, sir?" A short nod from the Steward granted permission. "I think you have been influenced by this imposter. I think that he has been whispering ideas in your ear and I think that he has made you blind to all else."

Faramir remained quiet for a long minute, seemingly to put the Councillor ill at ease again. And it worked. The table was tense and silent. The father had always been irrational, implacable, the son was as yet an unknown quantity in leadership and they were unsure.

At last Faramir raised his eyes to Aragorn, who as of yet had not spoken a word to the Council.

"Lord Aragorn has indeed influenced me greatly. He has shown me the path that I should be taking, the one that my father always knew was right. This is what we are doing. I will discuss it no further."

"Democratic," muttered one Councillor, apparently expecting his comment of discontent to be swallowed up in a sea of similar remarks from his fellows but the room remained otherwise quiet. He looked up to find himself pinned with two sets of grey eyes.

"Any man who has a problem with this may relinquish their position on this Council and leave now."

They all stared at Faramir as if he had well and truly lost his mind. And yet, not one of them moved. The Council had always been the power in Osgiliath; they had worked too hard to reach the positions they now held to be removed. So they stayed.

"Good. Now, we must work out of strategy. Ideas are welcome. There is much to decide."

Faramir nodded towards Aragorn and the young king stepped over to the door and motioned inside Jecha, Eomer and Janor, who had stood waiting just outside for the command to join in the discussion. Their presence in the Council chamber had not been thought the best idea given the fragility of the Council and its members skittish to change. But now came planning and strategy and the three commander's expertise would undoubtedly prove invaluable.

This upset the Council. As if Aragorn wasn't bad enough, not they had to endure yet more newcomers shaking things up. Mumbles of discontent went up again but were this time ignored and thus they quickly subsided.

"All right; let's begin," Aragorn spoke for the first time.

**To Be Continued…**


	64. Power

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews. I hope you are all still liking the story and that you enjoy this chapter.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 64 – Power**

Singing. They were singing now. Legolas sighed in distaste at the increasingly crude ditty coming from behind closed doors and growing louder and ever more riotous by the minute.

What had started out as a meeting of the great minds of the strategists had descended quite by accident into a celebration of sorts with most of the city present. Not that they didn't deserve to unwind a little in whatever fashion they desired. Faramir and the others close to him had spent two full days thrashing out every detail of the planned assault on Minas Tirith within the command post and the rumours were that, between reports of lack of supplies for an attack and continued resistance from the Council, it had been far from an easy endeavour.

The soldiers, it turned out, had reacted surprisingly well to the breaking of the news of an invasion despite Aragorn's fears that they would be reticent to answer the call to battle. For years they had been charged by the Steward Denethor with simply maintaining the security borders of Osgiliath, but now, for the first time in their generation, they were going on the offensive, actually doing something pro-active in the fight against the Shadow. The overwhelming reaction to the news had been relief. It had swept through the city as the news had broken that war would soon be upon them, fairly tangible in the air. In turn, Aragorn had been simultaneously impressed and relieved by the reactions of soldiers who remained to him an unknown quantity. His unspoken fears had proven unnecessary though. No convincing of the general populous was needed and that was a great weight off his shoulders, as well as off Faramir's, who perhaps had it worse living in the shade of his father's benign rule.

Heaving another sigh off into the night, Legolas looked away from the brightly lit windows of the tavern-come-meeting house.

It was to be expected, he reasoned, that no invitation to the celebration or the Council's meetings had been issued to him. He was in no one's good graces at the moment. Not that he particularly wanted to be inside the crowded tavern with the Men, he told himself with false resolve. He had never sought that out before and he wasn't going to start now. And yet it still stung to be so left out. He could not banish this emotion entirely, although hiding it from view was easy enough to do when no one spared him a second glance.

What good would he be in such a social situation amongst Men, anyway? Why should he feel at all disappointed that he had once more been left out in the cold by those he had fought beside in battle? He had done nothing but distance himself as much as he possibly could from the Men of Gondor in recent days, fearing their opinion of him and not having the energy to alter their views. Surely he should not expect anything but the same sense of distance from them now they celebrated.

Besides, he reasoned to himself as the singing became even more raucous behind him, he was too distracted to even consider inviting himself into the party. He could have walked in and settled himself at a corner table and no one would have approached him. But his mind was filled still with so many thoughts of what had transpired upon the streets of Osgiliath. His days and nights remained equally disturbed by the happenings, of his run-in with the agent of Shadow. He mused that it was a relief not to have a bed to sleep in because in sleep his mind would surely be free to run wild and he feared he would be haunted by the Shadow that had touched him. He wasn't sure he could stand that.

It was not only the thought of the Mouth of Sauron's cruel words of purposeful torment that plagued his every moment. It was that image, ingrained into his mind; his father's great sword, which he had thought long lost at the fall of the king and Mirkwood, now in the possession of the Dark Servants and used against him, the Prince of Mirkwood. It made him sick to think that that object of reverence, of power in Mirkwood, was now also tainted by the Shadow. Everything he had once had was turned to darkness. There was nothing sacred left to him now. His home was destroyed beyond all repair and he knew he would never again see the vast green forests of Mirkwood. All he had ever had since the fall of his home were his memories. Granted, they had been carefully locked away where they could not interfere with his assigned task upon this earth but they remained all the same, ready for when the time came that he could look without fear at what had been done to his old life.

But now, not even his memories were safe from the foul creeping influence of the Shadow. Sauron had seen into his mind, had rifled around his thoughts and thrown them into chaos and it tortured him to ever be aware of this vile violation, to have that which was most private, most cherished had been tainted simply to torment him.

His home, his father, his wife, his children had all been taken away from him and now it seemed that the Dark Lord sought to take his sanity from him as well. Had he not suffered enough already? How much more would he be forced to endure? Would he be pushed in this way until he broke entirely? He just didn't know how much longer his promise to restore the rightful line of Kings to the Throne of Gondor could keep him going. His acknowledgement, even though it was a secret he would ever keep to himself, of this weakness in his faltering heart startled him and dragged him even further down into his despair and his hand unconsciously drifted to rest against his chest in an attempt to sooth the pain building there.

He was weary beyond endurance. Not just weary in body, but in mind and soul also.

He closed his eyes and focused on pushing back the darkness that lingered on the edges of his senses, instead letting the crude words of the Men drift over him in the vain hope that it might drown out the taunting voice inside his mind. He knew though, that not even the sounds of joy and celebration could halt the whisperings of the Shadow.

Running his hands down his face in an attempt to regain some semblance of control over himself, Legolas shifted against the wall he rested on and let his eyes roam all over the lit up city spread before him.

"It's chilly out here tonight."

Legolas startled, looking around to find Eomer stood at his side, holding a tin cup of steaming liquid in each hand. He had been so distracted that he hadn't even noticed the man's approach. A Human sneaking up on an Elf, he thought with a weak smile. What had the world become?

Eomer laid both mugs down on the high wall and rubbed his hands together to warm them. One of the cups he pushed towards Legolas, whilst he pulled the other towards himself.

"Here, eat this." He nudged the cup again persuasively. "You haven't eaten in days. You look like you're about to keel over."

"Thank you."

Although this was said with a touch of sarcasm, Legolas nevertheless gratefully accepted the cup, which it turned out was filled with vegetable soup that although watered down almost to a tea nevertheless smelled wonderful enough to make his stomach growl with hunger. He could not remember the last time he had eaten anything and although he had been hungrier than this, the niggling ache in his stomach was beginning to bother him.

"Mind out," Eomer cautioned when the cup tipped dangerously in the Elf's pale hand. Seeing that the Elf's hand trembled ever so slightly, he guided the hand to place the cup back on the wall, worried that he might drop it. "Cold?" In anyone else, he would not have paid any heed to the slight shake in the hands but compared to the usually rock-steady hands of the Elven prince, this stood out in the eyes of the Man.

Whilst the Elf made a noncommittal noise, Eomer stared long and hard and decided with a shock of concern that Legolas did not look cold. He looked weak.

"How are things going in there?" the Elf asked, seemingly oblivious to Eomer's worries over his health.

"Fine."

"Good."

"They're still working things out but at least they're all agreeing – or they're not arguing at least. A step forward, I would say."

Again Legolas nodded in agreement. "A step forwards indeed. Wonders never cease."

When a loud chorus if cheering erupted in the tavern behind them, Eomer glanced back with a grin on his face. "Things have descended into celebration, I'm afraid," he chuckled.

"So I hear."

Turning back to Legolas once more, the man noted the still full cup on the wall, as of yet untouched, so he prompted, "Eat that while it's still warm." Again, he nudged the cup towards the Elf. "You need food inside you."

This time Legolas paid heed and picked up the cup again. After taking a couple of grateful sips of the wonderfully warm soup, he rested his hands on the wall, clasped around the blissfully heated tin, leaning against the stone.

"And Aragorn? How is he doing?" the Elf asked his unlikely companion.

"Aragorn is doing just fine. Of course, if you joined everyone else inside then you would know that already."

Taking another sip at Eomer's urging, Legolas swallowed the broth and said, "I am not welcome in there, I don't think."

Eomer rolled his eyes, simultaneously releasing a sigh of exasperation and leaning heavily against the wall next to the Elven prince. "Would you like my advice?"

"Absolutely not."

"I'll give you it anyway. Stop being so bloody-minded and just apologise. Put all this behind you."

"It's not that simple."

"Yes, actually, it is. 'Sorry'. There, I said it so by your reckoning anything I do can't be too challenging, can it? You ought to try it out for yourself some time. You'll feel better for it."

Finishing off the last of his thin vegetable soup, Legolas shifted his elbows on the wall so that he could cradle his head in his hands. He made no further reply to the man who, most surprisingly, had remained at his side this long. Only the muffled sound of singing, no doubt perpetuated by the Rangers' liquor which would probably be getting passed around right about now, broke the thick silence of Osgiliath. It seemed so eerily out of place, such merriment amidst the constant threat of all-consuming Darkness. Celebrations of this kind were few and far between these days, even in the most peaceful of places left on Arda. Generally, there was little to celebrate. What, Legolas wondered, would Sauron make of such mirth? A thrill of pleasure zinged through his mind at that thought. Anything that put the Dark Lord ill at ease had to surely be only good.

"Legolas?"

"Mm?"

"You do not look well."

"Thank you kindly," muttered the Elf dourly, nodding his head in a mocking bow.

"I am being serious."

"What do you care anyway?" He didn't have the patience to deal with Eomer right then. His mind was occupied with too much else. Most of the other Men he could bring himself to tolerate such comments from but not the Rohirrim Commander. Eomer simply grated on his nerves whenever he was with him, especially the rare times when they were forced into being alone with each other.

"I care because you are Aragorn's guardian and I don't want to see him hurt, which he surely would be were you to leave him for any reason."

Legolas scoffed, eyes falling shut, willowy body resting against the wall as though for support. "Your concern is touching, Commander, but you needn't worry. I promise not to fade where I stand." He released another heavy sigh, thin chest heaving at the effort of even this simple action. "I am just tired."

"Anything I can do?"

"Not a thing."

"Uh-huh. We'll see." After taking a quick glance around himself, as if checking that there was no one else about to see him in a moment of kindness towards one who was ostracised amongst the allied Men in Osgiliath, he boldly took Legolas' arm and tugged on it gently. "Come on. The least I can do is walk you back to your rooms. One cannot sleep standing up and certainly not with that racket filling the air."

Legolas stood up straight as directed by Eomer's persistent motion against his arm, but protested, "I don't have a room in which to sleep."

"You weren't given one?" Eomer asked with a frown of confusion even as he led Legolas away from the packed centre of command. Legolas was a good ally to the King of Gondor and a prince in his own right, albeit one in exile from his fallen kingdom; surely the Men of Gondor had not completely ignored his presence amongst them.

"They don't like me much." Legolas chuckled mirthlessly to himself at the size of that understatement.

"You do see to have that effect on people." Again, Legolas laughed at this, unfazed, it seemed, by the truth of the observation. He had made no friends in Osgiliath so far. Nor had he any friends, perhaps with the exception of Eowyn, amongst the Rohirrim. Yes, he got on with a handful of the Rangers, on and off. Times were, he missed Kinnale. Sometimes, he thought that he had been the only Human he had really had anything in common with; he'd been the only one who had understood the heart of the Elf even to a point. "All right, you can use my room for tonight. You need to sleep before you become completely useless to everyone."

"No, I'm all right, Eomer. Genuinely. Thank you for your concern."

"Yes," insisted the blonde man, pulling harder against the resistant Elf. "Like you said, you're not needed inside. You can afford to take a little time to rest."

"I should stay. Just in case Aragorn needs me."

"Aragorn will be fine without you for one night," the Rohan man assured, again pulling on Legolas' arm when he went to turn back towards the tavern. "Come on. Stop resisting." When Legolas still refused to relent, he unrepentantly stressed the point that he knew would hit a nerve with the King's guardian, "What good will you be to Aragorn if you continue on in this state, hmm?"

"That was low, Eomer."

Just as Eomer had predicted, however, there was no better persuasion. Legolas turned away from the party with a rather dejected nod of consent.

"This way."

Just as Eomer had shown proper courtesy to the Rangers when they had come to Rohan, so the commander of the Gondorians had given similar quarters to the leaders of the Rohirrim and Rangers. Etiquette amongst Men was difficult to erase even after decades of deprivation and war. Faramir had granted Eomer a medium-sized room in a house not too far from the central command post. Of course, space was limited so the room was shared with two other men, which was still exceedingly generous given that many others were packed into rooms shared by eight or ten others, bedding down on the floors wherever there was space to spare. But almost everyone except the vigilant sentries patrolling the city's borders were at the celebration so the house currently stood empty.

"Lay down here." The man led Legolas to his own modest bedding, a comfortable mixture of blankets and furs. "Lie down."

"This is all very disconcerting, you know."

"What is?"

"You, being kind to me."

"Well, you did save my sister's life. I still owe you much for that kindness."

"One good deed."

"A great deed."

"But still not enough."

"Excuse me?" Eomer picked up one of the blankets from the mattress of a fellow housemate, certain that the man wouldn't mind when finally he returned inebriated once the celebration was over, and prompted, "Sit."

As he lowered himself down wearily onto the slim mattress, Legolas continued quietly, "He saw. He saw what I truly am, Eomer; what I have sought to hide even from those trusted to me."

"Who? What are you talking about?"

"More than anyone I have ever encountered, he knew what I was, what I have done. He saw into my heart and threw all within into chaos."

Having come to the conclusion already that he would make no sense out of what Legolas was saying to him even if he determined to spend the entire night trying to figure it out, Eomer just nodded vaguely at the Elf's rambling in order to appease him. "Lay down."

The Elf flopped down without any of his usual grace onto the mattress, collapsing back so that his head only half rested on the thick cushion made of old fabric and feathers from some type of bird. "Do you know what it's like?" he enquired of the Human hovering over him; eyes boring disconcertingly into Eomer's as he patiently awaited an answer.

"Know what what's like?" Noting that Legolas was making no move to adjust himself on the bed, Eomer sighed around his question and straightened out the pillow beneath the golden head with almost gentle care. Why he suddenly felt the need to look after the Elf, Eomer was clueless. Perhaps it was because for the first time since he had met Legolas, the Elf honestly looked like he needed caring for.

"To have your whole existence scrutinised, touched upon by the Darkness."

"Can't say that I have ever had it happen to me."

Legolas released a breathy laugh. "You are lucky then."

"Uh-huh."

"I was tempted, you know."

"Tempted to do what?"

"Comply with his wishes."

Eomer paused in laying the fur blanket over Legolas' prone form, taken aback momentarily by that statement.

Of course, he had learned somewhat of what had happened to Legolas in the streets of Osgiliath during the Wraith attack from his sister; or at least he had once he had ceased shouting at her for her foolishness in risking her life to rescue the Elf and given her leave to speak.

He knew not what exactly she and Legolas had encountered for she honestly did not know herself and until this night Legolas had made no attempt at all to speak to anyone of what had occurred.

Eowyn had been shaken by her encounter with the Shadow, that much was for sure. Eomer had only seen Legolas a handful of times since but he hadn't looked particularly afraid – just bone weary. He'd flitted around the city, helping out where needed, aiding in everything from working in the healing halls to doing minor repairs on abodes damaged during the attack. Rarely had he been seen with Aragorn lately although there seemed to be no lingering animosity between them to explain the distance they kept from one another. And then Denethor had been discovered dead, killed by his own hand, and everything had changed once again. The ensuing confrontation between the Elf and Faramir had been far from civil. Faramir had flat-out accused Legolas of the murder of his father and lord and commanded that the guardian remove himself permanently from his sight or risk death himself. Hurt and offended by the allegations made against him – which in truth Eomer didn't think had any substance in spite of his continued lack of faith in the Elf's overall character – Legolas had retreated further and Eomer had not seen him again until this very night.

So, he found himself completely underprepared for Legolas' words now.

Even so, he asked, "Who do you speak of, Legolas?"

Legolas just shook his head against the soft fabric of the pillow. How could he tell Eomer of his weakness, what lay hidden deep in his heart? Already the commander of the Rohirrim had a low opinion of him; did he really want to further alienate people from him when there was a glimmer of hope for a friendship?

So, Legolas simply shook his head again. "Terrible things, Eomer."

"All right," the man sighed, finally lowering the blanket over Legolas, "you're not making any sense. Go to sleep."

Blue eyes fixed him with a stare somewhere between sadness and pleading and Eomer found that he could not look away so hypnotic was that look. Only when Legolas' eyelids dropped and the spell was broken did Eomer blink in confusion.

"Look after Aragorn, Eomer. Make sure he doesn't drink too much this night." Legolas was already closer to sleep than wakefulness, his words soft and slightly slurred.

"Of course I will. Just rest now, my friend."

With the Elf finally safely tucked up in bed and getting the sleep he clearly desperately craved, Eomer crept quietly from the room, shutting the door behind him. The party would no doubt go on for hours yet; no one would be in to disturb Legolas for a while.

Although he didn't particularly feel like mingling anymore, Eomer returned to the increasingly rowdy command post because he couldn't think of anywhere else to go. The two Dwarves, Gimli and Gloin, were currently singing in coarse voices some kind of unintelligible Dwarven ditty atop the tables, heavy feet stomping out a beat against creaking, alcohol-dampened wood. Almost as soon as he entered the tavern, a cup was thrust into his hand by a fellow reveller; although he found that he had lost his appetite for celebration this evening and doubted that even Ranger liquor would restore his spirit.

"Where have you been?" asked Kalub, coming over to him and giving him a playful but hard thump on the back.

Once he'd finished coughing over his drink and shaking the foul liquid off his hand where it had been spilled at the overly rough greeting, Eomer replied, "With Legolas."

Kalub was surprised and didn't bother to hide it from his face. "Oh, I haven't seen him around here."

"He's been in hiding, I think. I gave him my bed to sleep in for the night."

"Right."

"Have you seen Eowyn about?"

"No. Are you staying? Honestly, I think you should. Word is that Jecha and his taciturn companion might do a dance later. Can you imagine?! And Jadan is threatening to sing for everyone. The night is far from over, my friend."

"Uh, yes, I suppose." He looked around, craning his neck to see over the crowds, searching for his sister. He found himself curious about what Eowyn and Legolas had really experienced during the recent Wraith attack. Legolas could not – or would not – tell him anything but perhaps Eowyn could enlighten him. "What about Aragorn? Have you seen him anywhere?"

"No, haven't seen him either. Relax, Eomer. I'm sure they're around here somewhere." With that, Kalub spotted a friend in the crowd and slipped away, hollering across the room a rowdy greeting.

"Something the matter?"

"Jecha," Eomer started, finding the man stood right beside him. "No, nothing. Well, yes, actually. Something Legolas said. He mentioned something just now; it's troubling me, that's all. I thought to speak to Aragorn about it."

"What is it?"

Leaning in close to the Easterling's ear so that he couldn't be overheard by any of the revellers, Eomer said, "I'm worried…Legolas might have been influenced by the Shadow." He hated himself for speaking the words and yet he could not put it from his mind. "I fear he may have been compromised."

For a long minute, Jecha stared at the Rohan man, dark eyes peering above rich burgundy cloth. Releasing the breath he had been holding, Jecha searched out his companion Sonal who sat still and quiet at the bar, eyes watching everything around him but never once glinting with joy at being surrounded by such frivolity. For an instant they locked eyes but said nothing. Then Jecha took Eomer's arm, long fingers gripping just a little too tight for comfort. "Come on; let's go somewhere a little more private to discuss this." Somewhere private turned out to be the exact same spot outside where Eomer had earlier found Legolas. "Do you realise what you're saying?" Despite there being no one at all about, Jecha spoke in a whisper, rushed and urgent.

"Yes, I realise."

"If you just accuse someone of such a thing without proof…"

"I know! I know that, Jecha. But how can I ignore this possibility if I suspect it to be so? Something this important cannot go without investigation."

"Where has this suspicion come from? What has caused such an idea?"

"Something Legolas said. Something happened the other day, during the Wraith attack on the city. I'm not entirely sure what but it was something. He said that he was tempted."

"To do what?"

"By the Shadow. I'm not sure."

Jecha's voice went softer still, "You think that the Shadow attempted to recruit him to the ways of Evil?"

"Who knows what the Shadow has been whispering to him? He would not tell another soul for no one in this city trusts him. And he would not speak of such a thing to Aragorn, would he? He only spoke to me by accident. Had he been in his full wits he would never have said anything, I a certain."

"It's not so unusual, Eomer, to be touched by the Shadow. Spies are everywhere, they constantly attempt to coerce the unsuspecting towards Darkness. Just because a servant of the Shadow tried to tempt Legolas and because he felt tempted to accept whatever Sauron offered him doesn't make him a threat."

"Of course I know that."

"And don't you think that he deserves the benefit of the doubt after all he has done for the cause?"

"Yes, I do. But it is suspicious all the same."

Jecha sighed and raised his hands to rub his eyes, an action seldom seen in the usually composed man. "All right. Have you spoken about this with anyone else?"

"No."

"Good. Do not. I will speak with Legolas, take care of it."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Just that I will take care of it. Better I speak to him about it than any other. From what I've seen and heard, the two of you are not the best of friends. If you confront him, it will only end in argument," Jecha patted Eomer on the shoulder in reassurance. "Don't worry anymore about it."

"Don't worry? Look, you don't know Legolas like I do. He's…If he was tempted to change sides then it would be…"

"I said that I would take care of it."

Not relenting so easily in the face of what he suspected to be a very serious matter, Eomer refused to let the Easterling leave, sidestepping so that he blocked Jecha's retreat. "How?" he demanded shortly, green eyes locked with deep brown. "How will you deal with it? What do you plan on doing, exactly?"

"Are you questioning me, Rohirrim?"

Eomer fought with his immediate impulse to be swayed towards anger by his companion. "Maybe."

"So I am now allied to the Shadow as well? All but you, is that not so?"

A smooth pace forward brought Jecha mere inches from Eomer. What captured the eyes of the Rohan man though was not the anger projected towards him but rather the flash of steel at Jecha's side. Even in celebration, this warrior was armed and fearsome. And yet still Eomer feared the Shadow and its creeping influence amongst them more.

"You don't advise caution?"

"Of course. But I also caution against rampant paranoia. It is a powerful weapon of the Enemy in itself, you should not indulge in it, nor should you encourage others to."

"I am not being paranoid," ground out the taller man through gritted teeth. How he wished he'd had the forethought to be likewise armed. Never again, he silently vowed to himself, would he venture out unarmed. It was careless. "I am being careful. And so should you be."

"Would you be as suspicious, I wonder, if it were another that spoke of such doubts with you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Calmly, Jecha rephrased as if it was just a case of simple misunderstanding between them, all the while perfectly aware of how much it would irritate Eomer to be spoken to in such a manner. "Do you think you would be as convinced of danger if it had been any other than Legolas who had voiced such a concern to you?"

"You think that this is because of Legolas? You think I have something against him and am attempting to discredit him?"

"It is no secret that you do not care for him."

"That is absurd!"

"Really? Then ask yourself: would we be having this conversation if it were Eowyn who had put voice to her fears? Or Jadan? What about Faramir?" Jecha challenged, his voice remaining soft the entire time he spoke his accusations. "Did you fear this after what Ciaran and Aragorn endured when they glimpsed what lay in the Seeing Stone?" Eomer's empty look prompted Jecha to carry on. "Ciaran looked directly into the Palantir, as did Aragorn after him. It was you who informed all who would listen that the Stone of Seeing is evil, that it turns sane Men to madness. Both of them were touched by the Shadow, by that madness, when they laid hands upon its surface and yet they walk free and unwatched. Why trust them but not Legolas?"

Eomer scoffed at this and, without even thinking, took a submissive step back. "You think that Ciaran was left entirely alone, that he hasn't been constantly and carefully watched after what occurred? You think that Aragorn went entirely unobserved?"

"Persecuted though?"

"Who is persecuting Legolas? I'm discussing this with you before I take any action of my own, justified though that might be, and you are accusing me of being unfair?"

Calmly Jecha said, "And yet we have never had this discussion before tonight."

"Forget I ever said anything about it then if it suits you better!"

With that, Eomer pushed past Jecha, secretly relieved that the Easterling chose not to stop him from leaving.

As he passed, Jecha calmly, infuriatingly calmly in Eomer's opinion, told him, "I will talk to Legolas if it will ease your concern."

"It would," Eomer replied around an exasperated breath. "Thank you."

**OIOI**

"Please. Please!"

Saruman stared out of the tall window of his study without really seeing what lay beyond the wavering glass. Not that there was anything to see even if he had been focused. Isengard had fallen quiet once more. Ever since Fangorn Forest had been razed to the ground by his Uruk-hai, fuel had been hard to come by and the fire pits had gone dark. So much for his infallible machine of war. A mere lack of wood had stalled it and brought his entire enterprise to a grinding and somewhat embarrassing halt.

"Please! Master!"

The White Wizard sighed in irritation at the constant distraction of his thoughts. He was tired of hearing the same, pitiful cry over and over without rest. It was beginning to grate on his nerves. Weeks of such baleful cries was bound to get anyone riled, particularly as he was stuck within his tower, unable to leave at Sauron's command, unable to escape this torment partly of his own doing. There was just no escaping it. Of course, disobedience had crossed his mind during the long months of his imprisonment. Briefly considered and quickly rejected. He was afraid of Sauron. That never got any easier to admit to himself. And yet fear him, he did. So he stayed.

"Please. Please!"

"Grima," Saruman growled loudly in reply, even though there was no way that his treacherous, currently incarcerated servant could hear. He could just have killed the man, he knew. It would be easy enough. Weak and drowning in self-pity Grima would not put up enough of a fight to even be considered a threat. But he had not received the order to do so yet. Sauron might yet have use for the man who had for a time successfully infiltrated the Rohirrim. Still, for the Wizard, the temptation was there and grew greater with every passing shout.

One month ago, Grima had returned to Isengard, limping on blistered feet from the walk and very near to collapsing at the door in exhaustion, reporting that his mission to retrieve the Palantir from the Rohirrim had been wholly unsuccessful. This failure could not be forgiven, it could not be overlooked for it made Isengard, and in turn, Saruman, look bad. It was an inexcusable crime.

Too afraid of the repercussions of what had transpired, Saruman had yet to inform his superiors in Mordor of the dreadful mistake. He could just imagine what the consequences of such an error in his judgement would be and he was not too proud to admit that he did not want to face any such consequence dished out by the Dark Lord of Mordor. Grima would not be punished by their master for his failure. No, this would fall on Saruman's head. He ruled Isengard and it was he who had entrusted Grima with the important task of bringing the Palantir to Isengard. Blame was his.

Truth be known, he was anxious. He'd had no word from the Black Lands in months. No more visits from the Nine, no messages, no orders, no news at all. It was disconcerting. Granted, he did not like being hassled by the servants of the Shadow he considered to be beneath him, namely all but Sauron himself, but nor, he was finding, did he like being ignored either. Being disregarded in this manner could only mean that someone in the Black Lands was angry with him and that could only ever bode ill for Isengard and its master.

The trouble was, there was nothing he could do. The Palantir currently in his possession had been dark for weeks now. He could, he supposed, have looked into the orb himself, demanded to speak with the Dark Lord and get answers, but he was too afraid to make such a bold move for fear of what Sauron would see of him.

Instead, he paced restlessly about his tower, listening to the pathetic wails of his prisoner and wondering whether his own cries would soon join those of the unfortunate Grima. It was infuriating to be thusly trapped within his own home, fearing for his very life after all he had done for the Lord of Shadow.

"Let me go!" came the desperate cry, echoing off curved walls and clearly reaching Saruman's already tortured ears. "Master, I beg of you! Let me go!"

The Wizard wondered, as he idly shuffled papers around on his large black desk, how long Grima could keep up the tirade. How long could a man survive without food and water? Surely, at least his voice would give up soon and blissful silence would return. Or so he hoped.

**OIOI**

"This is…disappointing."

"Yes, my Lord. Yes."

"You of all…My most trusted."

Crouched in a painfully low bow, forehead almost scraping the floor, the Mouth of Sauron, newly recovered from injuries sustained in Osgiliath and returned by the Wraiths to Mordor, clasped his clawed hands before him, unabashedly begging for his life. Seldom had he felt such fear as when the Nazgul had announced to him their imminent return to Mordor and their intent to bear him to his home. Facing his master after such failure was never going to be easy. And it so far was going just the way he had predicted.

"Why? How…did this…happen?"

"I know not, Master."

It was indeed a mercy that Sauron was currently not at his best. As a matter of fact, he had rarely looked worse in a host. In the sparse room near the very peak of Barad-dur, the Lord of All Arda was reclined on a plush bed, body spread out ridiculously in an attempt to get some comfort. Once, he would never have deigned to repose as mere mortals did and yet he was now reduced to doing just that. The Elven body, this filthy, degrading carcass he was bound to, was fading once more. He shouldn't complain; it had lasted longer than any of the others. It was progress for the technique to be sure. But still far from good enough. Of course, he had known it wouldn't last and yet he still remained disappointed at its failings. Saruman had promised better for him. Such a failing on the part of the Wizard was unacceptable, although just another in a long line, he thought sourly.

Failing had seemed to become the theme of his day. Which brought his increasingly scattered mind back to the grovelling creature on the floor at his bedside. The pitiful being remained talking, extolling his many virtues in a desperate attempt to inspire clemency.

"Enough."

One word induced complete silence. The being kept its hands clasped before him but raised its head from the floor to stare pleadingly at its master.

"You know now…what we must do." The being cocked its head to one side, smile wide and fixed awkwardly, desperate to please in any way it could. "For once and for all, this must end. I will no longer abide this rebellion in my lands. It has gone on too long already. And the false king grows bolder every day."

"Gondor," hissed the black creature in sick pleasure.

"I want it back."

"Yes!"

For a moment, there was silence. Both were waiting.

Sauron spoke first, rasping and quiet and weary. "Go. Get it done. For me."

"Yes Master." The Mouth of Sauron raised its body from its position of supplication and backed hastily away, back hunched awkwardly all the way out the door in order to maintain its low bow.

He could hardly believe his luck; he had gotten away with his dreadful miscalculation in Osgiliath. Unscathed. It was almost too good to be true. Anyone who was sided with the legions of Shadow knew that deceit lay around every corner. Nothing could be trusted, especially when things were going well.

But he had been given a second chance. He was smart enough not to squander it. Sauron had ordered that Gondor's progress be halted. This victory, for victory was almost certainly assured now, would be his salvation. Do the best job he could on that and he might just come out the other side of the coming battle with his title and his life intact. That was the best he could hope for.

For long moments after his wretched servant vanished from sight, the Dark Lord watched the ceiling above. Ruling in this condition was tiring, he was finding. In this wreck, he could manage but a few hours a day. It was terribly restricting. How could he rule his empire if he was curtailed by these awful inadequacies that were only going to get worse?

His thoughts turned to the Wizard in Isengard. Only one potential vessel remained in the pits beneath Barad-dur. Nowhere near enough to get him through this war that was even now being lined up in Gondor. The magic of the Istar was strong but even it could not sustain an Elven body indefinitely. What Sauron really needed remained frustratingly beyond his reach, with the child currently encamped outside the White City of Gondor.

None could help him, it seemed. Even his strongest, most trusted servants had failed him with regards to the Human pretender standing stubbornly against him. What then could he do? Of course, he knew the rational thing to do would be to take to the battlefield himself, just as he had done during the war when Men and Elf had allied and when he initiated and completed his second takeover of Arda. He had been successful then. Perhaps he could be so again. But much had happened since that last time. He was not all he had once been. He was spent, useless, confined within a body that constantly failed him. Pitiful, that it had come to this. The mighty Lord of Arda brought lower than even the lowest beings to crawl the face of Middle Earth. So much power and he could use none of it.

Sauron's meandering thoughts turned yet again to the White Wizard. Power was something that the ancient Maia had in abundance.

Sauron eased his heavy body up on trembling arms, thoughtful. The Nine had power also. Even the Voice of Mordor had been gifted with magic. _His_ magic. He had gifted it to all of them, therefore it was his to recall any time he chose.

Hope soared in his mind. Perhaps things were finally looking up.

With one sharp silent command, Sauron summoned the Nine to him. For the time being he needed his herald commanding his army. For that reason alone he would let the faithful Voice be. Saruman. That was where the power he needed laid. With the Wizard's magic, combined with his own taken back from the Nazgul, perhaps he could be somewhat of the being he had once been again. The end was approaching and he wanted to be hale and prepared for whatever force Aragorn had lined up for him and his armies.

**To Be Continued…**


	65. Paving The Way

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews. I hope you all like the chapter.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 65 – Paving The Way**

The breeze was picking up. Mercifully, it was beginning to blow away the thick clouds of fog that had enveloped the city for almost a week now, making it seem slightly less unbearably claustrophobic trapped as the Men were within the city borders. For days it had hung, day and night, over Osgiliath, cocooning all within. People had started to become uneasy shrouded in the thick grey haze. They tended to be unsettled when they felt so trapped within their own homes with the knowledge that Minas Tirith, the city taken, lay somewhere hidden away in the distance, swarming with monsters of the Shadow; at times it felt very much like there was no escape if the forces of Shadow were to attack them now. It was psychological, they all knew. There was never any hope of escape from Osgiliath with the White City looming in the distance, fog or no. Not being able to see the threat to their lives though made them all antsy. If their doom was coming, they wanted to be aware of it no matter what.

"Anything good to look at today?" Jecha asked the Elf perching upon the wall that had become a regular haunt for him of late, facing the currently invisible city of Minas Tirith. It was quiet here and as few thought to seek him out Legolas was left pretty much alone, which he had always preferred.

"Not much." Legolas did not turn to his unwelcome guest. His eyes remained squinting into the grey horizon in spite of his declaration that there was nothing to see.

"Would you mind if I joined you?"

Tense shoulders rose up then dropped down in an indifferent shrug that was decidedly cold. "Do what you like."

It was not much of an invitation but Jecha took it as an affirmative all the same and he joined the Elf on the wall. "You are still upset with me."

"I am not upset."

"Really? Then I am misreading."

"Obviously."

"Legolas, you must not blame me."

"Must I not?"

"You should not. I did what I had to."

The Elf finally, slowly turned his head to look at Jecha, anger burning bright behind blue eyes. "Are you sure you want to be seen with me? People might talk; you associating with a traitor."

"No one has accused you of treason."

"No? It certainly sounded like it." His eyes moved down in the direction where he could hear the citizens of Osgiliath moving about the city. "To _them_ it sounded like it."

"You are worried about public opinion all of a sudden? Because you never have before. In fact you actively strive to distance yourself from any other Human here. Even Aragorn of late, I have noticed. You cannot blame that isolation on me, now can you?" To this, Legolas said nothing although his features tightened slightly as though he accepted what Jecha was telling him. "If you wish to continue your anger towards me then so be it. But in case you haven't noticed things are in preparation for the attack. You are needed."

"I do not believe so."

Jecha released a deep sigh of frustration. "Stop moping around feeling sorry for yourself. Now is not the time. There are more important things to concentrate on than your own bruised ego. Think of Aragorn."

"He knows where to find me. I'm always around if I'm needed."

"You and your pride!"

"Leave me alone, Jecha."

The Easterling shrugged softly, looking away from the Elf. "Whatever you want." He stood from his seat on the wall, straightening out his layers of still flawless clothes, still undamaged by the trials he had endured. It still amazed Legolas. Not once had he seen the man repair the fine garments and he seemed to possess only one set. It seemed truly miraculous. "If you want to sit out here alone and sulk then fine. I will not stop you. It matters little to me if you choose to brood." It was sharply said but there was no real anger in his voice. He was frustrated. Given Legolas' behaviour, he thought it a completely justified feeling but not one he was entirely used to.

Jecha knew that the Elf would not be easily convinced after their somewhat heated confrontation the morning before about Eomer's fears over the Elf's involvement with the Shadow. Not only had Legolas been angry at being accused of being an ally of the Shadow after all he had done to put a halt to Sauron's tyranny but also because he felt very much like Eomer had betrayed his confidence. He had not meant to reveal so much that night Eomer had turned from irritant to friend. The kindness had thrown him and he had let down his guard for one brief moment and now he was paying for it. Jecha was very much aware of all of this and he was beginning to think that his attempts to pull Legolas from his anger were folly.

To try to apologise would simply be a waste of his valuable time. Aragorn was awaiting his return in the command post and he did not want to keep the king waiting.

As he went to walk away though, Legolas' wistful voice drifted quietly over him with the most unexpected of comments, "I would give anything to be able to glimpse the stars just one more time."

Jecha stopped at the words of aching pain and turned slowly to look at the Elf, who had resumed his distant gaze, although this time it was directed upwards towards the grey heavens rather than down at the mortals below.

"The stars?"

It occurred to Legolas with a sad jolt that maybe Jecha, a mortal Human born during Sauron's reign of terror, might never have seen the night sky full of stars as he had enjoyed during his own blessed childhood. It saddened him that Jecha, along with so many others amongst his kind had been denied that wonder that he had so loved indulging in before the changing of the world. It hurt him further still that Aragorn, his ward, had never looked up at the sparkling heavens and beheld its wonder. To the Elves, the stars were precious; to live without sight of them was a torture in itself, one that had taken its toll on Legolas when the skies darkened and clouded in the first years after Sauron's mutilation of Arda. Surprising, he mused, how one could adjust to such terrible deprivation. As a young Elf, he could not have imagined living without the sight of the skies. Even during his long tours of Mirkwood's dense forests, when the skies were obscured by thick canopies of green, he had always felt the light beyond. But now even that feeling of safety and comfort was gone from his world.

"They are so beautiful." He inhaled a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes to lose his mind in the beautiful illusion that the air was crisp and clear and the city bathed in the starlight and moonlight of old. "When I was young, I used to creep from my bed chamber at night and go out onto the practice fields where no one could see me, lay on my back on the cool grass and stare for hours up at the sky just watching the changing heavens. It used to drive my father to distraction when he discovered I had slipped past the guards yet again." He chuckled softly to himself, lost for a moment in the pleasant memory of his childhood, which he seldom permitted himself to indulge in. "I used to do it all the more when I discovered his displeasure, just to irritate him." Jecha listened in respectful silence to these reminiscences, knowing that it was a rare thing for Legolas to open up to anyone. "And then the Shadow veiled the skies and all was blank and cold in the world and I could gaze upon the stars no more."

"That was before my time."

"Yes, it would be I suppose." Legolas' eyes opened again, shining with melancholy. "You are lucky. Not remembering; it is a gift."

"Do you think? Is it really better to have never known something than to miss it?"

Rubbing his hands down his face, Legolas asked, "What do you think?"

"Would you prefer to be ignorant?"

"I don't know," confessed Legolas thoughtfully. "Sometimes, I wonder."

Jecha stepped towards him again, almost as quiet on his feet as any Elf. He was growing concerned over the prince. It was unlike Legolas to talk of the past. "Are you all right?"

"I will be."

"You want me to fetch Aragorn?"

"No. Absolutely not." With that, Legolas slipped lithely off the wall to stand at Jecha's side. "Forget I ever spoke of this."

"Legolas…"

"Jecha, please. There is a lot to do."

As the Elf strode away from him with purpose restored to his gait, apparently having shaken off his melancholy, Jecha called after him, "I thought you weren't helping."

"Changed my mind."

There was nothing that could be said, Jecha knew, to stop him, so the Easterling waited until Legolas had a chance to gain a little distance on him and then followed behind. He may have had concerns about the King's guardian but war was coming ever closer to them; there was no time for this now. Maybe after Minas Tirith was back in the hands of the Allies then he could speak with Legolas and Aragorn and sort out this horrible tension that was inexplicably building up. Until then, Jecha convicted to spend his energies preparing the ill-equipped Men of Gondor for the siege. A daunting task, given the strength residing within the White City.

**OIOI**

**Orthanc – Isengard**

He had lost the ability to shout days ago. All he could manage now through his parched throat was the occasional weak rasp. Useless, given he was so isolated at the peak of Orthanc. No one was around to hear his increasingly weakened cries for pity and help. Not that anyone would pay him any heed even if they could hear his pleas.

It was the theft of his one comfort, being able to voice his displeasure at his incarceration, that had nearly broken him back when he had been able to feel anything. Now he could do nothing at all. It had been a long while since he had eaten or had even a drop of water to quench his thirst. He had no energy left in his thin body. Days previously, although he couldn't remember when exactly, he had laid down on the filthy, rodent infested stone floor and he had not stood up since even though his mind screamed at him that he must if he desired to live. Standing required strength and he needed all of his simply to keep drawing breath into his lungs.

This was not the way he'd wanted to end his life, rotting away in his master's prison, the very place he had once taken great pleasure in taunting the poor occupants before he'd been sent out on his ill-fated mission. He'd seen enough perish here to know that his situation was hopeless. He knew that there was no escaping Isengard. Even if one could break out of the prison, none could get through the outer defences without being spotted. Hopeless.

Just a week before, Uruks had been stood beyond the thick metal door, guarding him, but they had left when he had fallen to the floor and not gotten up. They had not returned since. It had signalled his end. He was all alone now. No point in guarding someone who was incapable of even making a bid for freedom. That irritated Grima to no end. He had infiltrated the Rohirrim, done what others could not, what others would not dare, in service of his master. He had gotten his hands on the Palantir and stolen it away from the false King, the bane of the Dark Lord. Who could ever have foreseen running into that ragtag mix of wild Men and stunted Dwarves? No one could have predicted such a complication. And yet, he was being blamed for failing in the mission entrusted to him even though it was folly. He was imprisoned and forgotten. Unfairly.

His endless parade of morbid thoughts got him through yet another lonely night. He found that in lieu of shouting the injustice of all this, these dark thoughts were the only things keeping him alive and reasonably sane. They were a comfort. A small comfort, to be sure, but he clung onto this one small mercy.

The dullness of his long imprisonment was broken up when the door to his cell was opened with a loud, long squeal that made his head hurt and light stung his eyes as it shone brightly from the open doorway; white, unnatural light that equally warmed and terrified him. With one arm raising weakly to shield his eyes, Grima squinted up at the tall shape of pure white looming over him.

"You failed me, Grima. I am disappointed."

All the wretched creature could do was rasp out something unintelligible. Saruman's nose wrinkled at the smell of the filth around him. He found it horribly distasteful, being down in the realm of his prisoners. That was what servants were for, after all.

"You know why you are being punished, don't you?"

"Master." A clawed hand, pale and shaking, reached out for Saruman's robes draping on the floor before him. The Wizard took a disgusted step backwards pulling his finery with him. At the best of times, he did not like to be touched, especially by the lesser servants under his command. "Please, master, have mercy."

"Mercy?" It was as if Grima had forgotten that it had been his master who had condemned him to die in this place in the first place. Perhaps he had become delusional. Not that Saruman cared at all. His purpose down here did not require lucidity from his prisoner. In fact, he found himself bored already with the talking. Time to end his visit to the dregs of his small empire.

"You are worthless."

Grima lifted his head from the floor. He'd heard the note of finality. "I tried, Master."

"Not hard enough."

"Please." The hand that grasped at Saruman this time failed to reach him and Grima had not the strength even to drag himself across the floor on his belly to reach for the wizard. "It…It was the Human. It was all his doing."

Aragorn, Saruman thought with a sneer. Once again, that pretender to the throne of Men was in the way. His Lord would not be pleased. But that was a problem for another day. First, he had to clean up this mess of his own making. Aragorn would feel the wrath of the Shadow soon enough.

"Saruman, please."

Grima's last breath was used on a useless plea. Normally, the White Wizard would never have dirtied himself with such an unsavoury task, choosing to leave punishment and murder to his servants instead but Grima had embarrassed him greatly in front of the Dark Lord. Payback for such a mortifying situation felt surprisingly good. He stepped out of the cell, pushing the door shut on the waxy, pale face of his sub-standard servant. Let the traitorous body rot in the cells. A crooked smile flitted across Saruman's face. A job well done and perhaps a chance to salvage his standing in Sauron's eyes.

Saruman walked rapidly through the narrow halls of Orthanc, his footsteps echoing around as they kept a steady rhythm on the black stone floors.

The forked tower of Saruman had been built long ago by the Humans who had occupied Isengard as a great fortress, reaching high up into the sky to give perfect views of the surrounding lands of Isengard; it proved perfect for observing his empire when he felt so inclined. He was in such an improved mood now that his latest problem was at last out of the way that Saruman decided to pause for a moment and admire the lands around his tower as he seldom did anymore. Long slits, narrow but an ideal size for archers to be placed strategically around the tower should it ever come under attack, were cut into the thick stone so Saruman paused on his walk to look out. The day was grey but Saruman didn't mind that. It was his master's plan to make the world dark and so it was a good thing that the blanket of misery covered Isengard as well. Besides, he personally thought the world looked rather good shrouded in grey. It always calmed him to look upon secure lands under the rule of Arda's most powerful.

Today though, he was not soothed by what he saw beyond the walls of his forked tower. Horrified, would have been a more apt description. Not quite believing what his eyes were seeing, the Wizard pressed closer to the window, perhaps in the foolish hope that he was mistaken. But he was not.

Inside the defensive ring that surrounded Orthanc, the Uruk-hai had gathered, hundreds of them pouring from Isengard's pits to congregate together. All were flocking around another group of creatures come out of the mists that had replaced the trees in the pillaged Forest of Fangorn. From this distance it was impossible to identify the ringleaders or exact numbers but they were vast. The whole army he had built painstakingly from almost nothing was spilling from Isengard and he had no idea as to the reason. Certainly, he had not ordered it.

Anger flared in Saruman's chest, followed almost immediately by terror as his mind caught up with what was happening in his land. He backed away from the window until he felt the opposite wall hard against his back. Someone had ordered this gathering of his army and he doubted very much that the order came from within Isengard for no one would have the nerve. It was true that the Uruk-hai were intelligent beings, by his own design he had made them so, but he was doubtful that they harboured any thoughts of mutiny. They were bred for obedience, not for free thought.

Still, Saruman thought that an Uruk uprising would have been preferable to the alternative. Only one other could command his army – the only one he acknowledged as his superior: Sauron.

This possibility – _probability_, in fact – startled Saruman into action. He pushed away from the wall in an almost violent movement and hurried down the corridor, gripping his staff tight in both hands. If his lands were emptying then he feared that his time was also coming to an end. At what point, he wondered, had he ceased to be useful? Was he not an important, powerful and loyal ally? Had he not done all that was asked of him by the Lord of Darkness?

Crashing through the double doors to his study, Saruman turned and slammed the heavy doors closed behind him. He considered barricading them but then decided against it. Anything coming for him now would not be stopped by furniture of wood however study it looked.

Panic coursed through him. Magic probably would keep the Uruks at bay but against the darker servants of Mordor, it would be weak and mostly useless. What defence then did he have? He had nothing to bargain with. He apparently had no further purpose within Sauron's empire. He was obsolete, a loose end that now had to be terminated, just as he had done moments before with his own unfortunate servant Grima. And just as he had denied Grima the mercy he had begged for, so he knew he would be denied.

Hurrying over to his window, he looked out. The army was growing. All bore their armour, ironically stamped with his own symbol - the White Hand, and their weapons. Isengard was fast emptying and preparing, it seemed, to march into war. Saruman looked upwards to the skies, wondering whether the Nazgul were circling overhead. If they came for him, he was not sure whether he had the skill to hold them off. But he would try all the same. Until the last.

On the plinth in the middle of the room, in a place of reverence - sat the Palantir of Isengard, covered as it always was with dark cloth. Saruman ripped off the covering. Sauron, he knew, possessed one of these in his tower in Mordor. So too did Aragorn, despite all of his thwarted efforts to change that fact. Ironic, that he should now be, in what may very well be his final moments, looking at the very thing that had destroyed him. Usually, the Stone flared brightly when he looked into it, ever maintaining his connection to the Dark Lord but today it remained dark, dead. Saruman's heart leapt. He was out of contact. Mordor had abandoned him. Were he to summon up the Palantir of Mordor, he was certain his calls for clemency would go unheeded.

As if the Stone were a weapon intent on destroying him, he stepped away from it.

By the time he had run through the options in his mind, what the Dark Lord would do, by the time he had figured it out, it was too late. Darkness filled his mind, like a veil being pulled tight over his senses. This was followed almost immediately by dazzling light building behind his eyes. His staff fell from his hand, clattering noisily to the floor. A wave of weakness swept over him. His elderly form crumpled to the ground. A terrible crack sounded as his knees hit the floor but he did not feel the pain of the debilitating impact. In fact, he felt nothing other than the life seeping out of him. No, not life. Power. He looked over at his intricately carved staff. The magic, that blessing granted him long ago by the Valar themselves, was now being stolen from him by the Dark Lord leagues away in Mordor.

Gradually, he began to feel himself growing weaker still. He was not sure how Sauron was pulling this trick off. It would be costing him great power. It had to be with the aid of the Wraiths. Only the Witchking had the know-how to steal such potent magic. If it was indeed the Witchking then Saruman knew he stood little chance of escaping this fate. Yet, he still fought the strong pull of Dark magic that assailed him. He wouldn't go down without a fight.

But he was nowhere near strong enough. Perhaps if he had had the forethought to have anticipated this treachery then he might have been able to put up a better fight. Not like this though. There was nothing he could do but let the inevitable happen.

The knowledge that he would die from this sent of a jolt of fear through him. He did not want to die, to linger forever in the Halls of the Dead alongside the many hundreds he had condemned to their deaths. And he didn't want to go like this. He had been betrayed and it stung that he meant so little in the grand scheme of things.

It was an odd feeling, the sensation of the life draining out of him. Sinking further down to the floor, Saruman looked to the Palantir, wondering whether his treacherous Lord was watching him surreptitiously through the Stone. No doubt he took pleasure in this. With his foot, he kicked out at the plinth, hoping to jolt the Seeing Stone from its resting place. It did not so much as judder under the force of his impact.

The touch did incite something though. It was as though he had suddenly been enveloped in a blizzard. His vision turned white and the temperature dropped all around him. Shivering, he curled up into a tight ball. The whiteness became punctuated by spots of black after a while. Dizziness overwhelmed him and darkness slowly descended over his vision.

Within an hour of the order from Mordor being given, the Tower of Orthanc and the network of caves that were buried beneath it stood deserted. All within emptied out into the ring surrounding Isengard. There was no point in lingering in the realm now that the commanding Wizard laid dead within. Their forces were needed elsewhere.

Rows and rows of Uruk-hai and Orcs marched out of the dead realm, now under new orders from the Master of All.

**OIOI**

"Do you feel it?"

"Hm."

"I can feel it."

"Hm."

"It's horrible. I don't like it."

"Good to know."

Kalub sighed, an overly loud and dramatic sound in the quiet. He turned his attention to the Elf sat opposite him at the table and rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Yes."

"Really? It doesn't seem like you're listening."

Distractedly, Legolas answered without looking up, "I'm getting the gist."

The Ranger slapped his hands down lightly on the table before him. "The gist?"

"You don't like waiting."

"How can you be so calm? We're going into battle at dawn."

"I'm aware."

"Then panic a little, would you?!"

At last raising his eyes to his Human companion, Legolas asked, "Would it make you feel better if I descended into panic?"

"Maybe. Let's give it a try." When Legolas merely smiled blandly at him, a clear sign that panic was not on the Elf's mind nor would he lower himself to feeling the same apprehension that Kalub was feeling, the Ranger grinned at him in return then with another almost bored sigh, he sat up straight in his chair. "All right. I'm going to take a walk around the city. Do you want to come?"

"No, thank you."

Kalub got up from his chair, stretching his arms above his head with a low groan. "What are you going to do tonight?"

"Sleep?" Legolas suggested with a quirk of a smile in Kalub's direction.

"Funny. Seriously?"

Glancing down at the weaponry arrayed on the table ready for tending, Legolas answered, "I'm going to finish this then go and check on Aragorn before the gathering at the edge of the city."

"Dawn. Is it me, or does it seem a long way away?" Kalub asked as he went to the door.

"No. It doesn't seem far enough away to me."

"Right."

For a while longer, Legolas sat preparing his weapons, ensuring that they were perfect for the fight ahead. The upcoming battle against the Shadow for Minas Tirith would undoubtedly be long and fierce and he wanted to be ready. He, unlike the rest of Osgiliath, had not been pleased when Faramir and Aragorn had announced that the attack would commence at dawn. The Men of Osgiliath, now including the Rangers and Rohirrim, were as ready to confront the armies of the Shadow as they ever would be. There was little point in delaying the inevitable. Nothing was going to change dramatically. Better to call the attack now during the night while the Men were on alert. Once, long ago, there would have been an advantage to attacking Orcs during the daylight for they despised the light of the sun. But the world was grey and dark now all the time. Night and day no longer mattered to the forces of Shadow.

Whilst most went about this night in a heightened state of excitement, anxious about what awaited them but also eager to get going with the attack, Legolas was not looking forward to it at all. He was not afraid of what was coming. Unlike many of these Men, he knew what to expect of battle. He'd seen more than enough fighting in his long life.

So, as others seemed like Kalub, unsettled, Legolas remained ever calm. He was sure that the other warriors amongst the Men about the city felt the same. Experience, knowledge, brought about that tranquillity. It was the untrained fighters that worried Legolas the most. Warriors were few and far between in relation to the forces guarding Minas Tirith so Faramir, under Aragorn's advisement, had drafted in the able men and women from all quarters. Eomer had not been happy when the ranks of his Rohirrim had been bolstered by the willing women from Edoras but his protests had been ignored. Now was not the time to leave able soldiers on the side-lines no matter what their sex.

Legolas had been impressed with what Aragorn and Faramir had come up with, with regards to the taking of Minas Tirith. It was a well-thought-out plan, covering every aspect of the upcoming battle. Of course, it was impossible to predict what would happen once they reached Pelennor Fields and the Shadow army saw their approach. Not everything could be planned in war.

Now that Kalub had deserted him and the nervous tension had drained from the room, Legolas found that same energy had been transferred in part to him. Still, he forced himself to complete his task, knowing that it had to be done and done well. He would not be caught out tomorrow.

Once he'd finished, he packed away his twin blades, the daggers and the bow and arrows that he had been loaned by one of the Men of Osgiliath. Ready for the attack. He used to perform roughly the same ritual before leaving to patrol the forests of Mirkwood and he found it to be of some comfort now in this unfamiliar environment.

Certain that everything was sufficiently prepared, Legolas rose from his seat.

Next, he had promised himself that he would seek out Aragorn. The only time he'd seen the king in days was when he and Faramir had addressed the gathered mass of people in the square and then he'd not had a chance to really speak with his ward. Oddly, he felt reluctant now to seek Aragorn out. He and Aragorn had not quarrelled recently, there was no lingering animosity between them that Legolas knew of and yet during preparations for the upcoming assault on Minas Tirith Aragorn had not once sought him out to comfort or advise. He supposed that he was as much to blame for he had not sought the man out either. There was no reason he could think of for this reticence.

Still, it niggled him that Aragorn seemed to be putting distance between them. After all, the young man had always relied upon him, even when they had disagreements, Legolas knew that Aragorn looked to him for acceptance and guidance.

But no more, it seemed.

How much he had changed, Legolas wondered as he pushed in his seat and looked around the candlelit room. In Aragorn's youth, he had been reluctant to be looked to for advice. It was a parent's job to guide a child and Legolas had not been a parent in many years. However, over the years, his views on Aragorn and his duty to the future king had changed greatly. Now, he wanted so much to help Aragorn on his quest for the throne of Gondor. And yet now Aragorn turned away from him and he knew not why.

Of course, it was inevitable that Aragorn, once he had reached Gondor, would look more to the Men of that realm than to his Elven guardian. Legolas had always know and appreciated that. In fact, in the early days of travelling towards this realm, he had thought it would be a relief not to be burdened with the title and responsibility that Aragorn carried with him. And Legolas was glad that his ward seemed to be getting on well with the new Steward of Gondor and that their relationship was firm. He would need such an alliance in the future should their campaign against the White City be successful. But the prince who had guided the young man to his destiny had always assumed that at the end of their quest there would be a place for him.

After all, what was he without Aragorn at his side? He had no kingdom, no home of his own. He had no army. He had few friends within the ranks of Men and was generally looked upon with fear and suspicion by most of them. It could not be denied that he had not exactly gone out of his way to make friends with any of the Men of Gondor. At times, it must have looked like he was doing everything within his power to make enemies amongst the Humans. But surely doing what was right regardless of the personal consequences was not a crime worthy of exile from the life of his ward.

When Aragorn took the throne, what would his place be then? Would he just become another soldier? That he wouldn't have minded, he supposed, for he would always fight for Aragorn. The thought of being distanced from the man he had raised hurt though. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a selfish part of him thought that for all his efforts in getting to this point he deserved better.

Sighing to himself, Legolas pushed such self-pitying thoughts aside with a twinge of shame. He should not be thinking thusly. He should be proud of his ward for growing enough to no longer need him, he berated himself.

Outside, the air was fresh because of the cold, but lightning streaked across the sky over the mountains bordering the land of Mordor. A storm. Legolas wondered what the Dark Lord was doing this night, whether Mordor felt the anticipation growing in the lands next to his Black Lands. He doubted it. There was no way that Sauron could know what was being planned right under his nose. He was oblivious. That made Legolas' heart somewhat lighter.

After a brief walk, he found Aragorn sat outside the building that he was sharing with the Rangers.

"Aragorn? May I join you?"

Aragorn looked up, startled at the sound of his guardian's voice and there was surprise on his face at Legolas' presence. Nevertheless, he answered quickly, "Of course."

With a smile, Legolas joined him on the rotted step, noting Anduril resting next to the man and the flask of Ranger brew that had once belonged to Kinnale clasped in the man's hands. "How are you doing?"

"Fine. Waiting. You?"

"I've been preparing."

"Everyone has. Have you seen?"

"It has been hard to miss. Things have been manic."

Memories of the frantic days leading up to this night made Aragorn smile gently. The Men had worked fast and hard to get everything ready. For the most part, Aragorn and Faramir had been right at the heart of the chaos, planning and organising the troops. He had been aware of Legolas the whole time. The Elf had remained on the periphery, keeping out of the way of Faramir as asked by the new Steward and allied King, but Aragorn had heard from various people that he had been guiding the Men of Ogsiliath, teaching the ones unschooled in the art of war. Although Aragorn had not seen Legolas much or spoken of it, he appreciated the quiet support.

"They're doing well though, aren't they?"

"The Men?" Aragorn nodded, wanting his mentor's opinion. Legolas smiled softly at this. "Yes, they're doing very well."

"You don't sound terribly convinced."

"No, they are doing very well. Under the circumstances, I don't think they could do any better."

"Do you think they're ready?"

"As ready as they'll ever be."

"Good." Silence fell then, comfortable enough. Then, after a few minutes, Aragorn spoke up, and the quiet, nervous question that had obviously been resting heavily on his mind for some time now, probably ever since they had started working on the attack plans for the retaking of Minas Tirith. "A lot of them are going to die, aren't they?"

Legolas sighed deeply, raising his hand to run thin fingers through his hair. He would have given anything to have avoided this conversation. "Yes."

Nodding, keeping tears at bay as they threatened to gather in his eyes, Aragorn asked, "How many do you think?"

"I don't know."

"Most of them?"

"Possibly." What was the point in lying to the man now? He would find out for himself in just a few hours. Legolas wanted him to be prepared for what was going to happen after the battle as he could be.

Aragorn turned away from him, discreetly swiping tears from his eyes. His voice was thick when he started to speak again. "Those people are going to die because of me, on my orders."

"Yes, they are."

This was not what Aragorn wanted to hear. He should have been used it by now. Legolas had never been one to hide the truth or to soften the bad news for him. On some level he had always appreciated that candour. But now, when he actually wanted to be lied to, Legolas stuck to his policy of absolute truth.

"How am I supposed to command them knowing that?"

"Exactly the same as you would do under any other circumstances."

"I'm not sure that I can do that."

"Well, you have to."

"_How_?"

Legolas leaned forward so that his elbows rested on his knees and he could peer up at his ward's face. "It's hard, Aragorn. It's never easy to give an order you know is going to end up hurting – even killing – innocent people. It should never feel easy. But you have to do it all the same. It is the burden of command and one that you hold by birth-right."

"You know that I have never wanted it."

"I know."

Aragorn sighed and took the opportunity to look around the courtyard he was sat facing. He was tired but sleep would not come easily to him this night. Tension was thick and taut in the air. He doubted that many would find peace. Perhaps the more experienced, battle-hardened warriors would not be too bothered by the impending task. But, Aragorn thought, even they must be feeling anxious. What was coming would surely be an epic battle, the start of another full-blown war, possibly. It was bigger than any of them, excepting Legolas of course, had ever seen. Certainly, he felt the fluttering of nerves in the pit of his stomach. A quick glance in the Elf's direction left him none the wiser as to whether Legolas was sharing his feelings. Of course, Legolas would not reveal that by accident. He only ever revealed such personal details by design and Aragorn did not think that he was going to say that he was afraid.

"I have never seen war."

"It is not war. Not yet. This is one battle, Aragorn. You must remember that."

"It's hard."

"Yes. I know that as a leader you must always look at the bigger picture. But the big picture is for strategy meetings. It's for planning. When in battle, it's all about the now. You concentrate on what needs to be done in the moment. Everything else can wait. Your only focus has to be what stands in front of you. You cut down one enemy then move onto the next. This you have done before. It is no different."

"There are going to be thousands."

"Probably. One at a time. Just as I have taught you."

He knew that Legolas' words should have been comforting. In the past his guardian's wisdom had always helped him. The enormity of the task before him very nearly swamped him though. Despite what Legolas claimed, this was not a rowdy patrol of Orcs that stood before them, it was the very worst of the Shadow. There was no chance that they could take Minas Tirith as they had taken Helm's Deep. The White City was exposed – nothing but flat plains surrounded it on all sides. There was no cover. And the army encamped within would still be vigilant.

Scouts from Osgiliath reported that Orcs manned the walls, patrolling day and night. Archers probably. No one knew what weapons they had within the walls.

The architects of Minas Tirith had been clever. It was a functioning, communal city but it was almost as good a fort as Helm's Deep in Rohan. Built into a sheer rock-face, it was ideally positioned to overlook all the lands surrounding it. It was layered, towering into the sky with the top tier holding the king's residence and throne room and, according to legend, the fabled White Tree of Gondor, which made it a simply enormous target to take. And it was teeming with Orcs and Uruk-hai and Goblins. Minas Tirith meant much to the Dark Lord; he would not let it go easily.

All this, combined with a mainly inexperienced and under-equipped army, made Aragorn understandably nervous about approaching the city. An insurmountable task.

"You'll be with me, right?" Aragorn asked softly of his guardian. He felt Legolas' stare on him and the intensity of it made him feel uneasy, as it always had. "I need you with me out there."

"Just like always," confirmed Legolas sincerely.

"Will you promise me something?"

Legolas frowned slightly, wary of committing to anything given the uncertainty of battle. "What would you have me promise?"

For a moment, Aragorn paused, as though he was nervous about confiding in his guardian his fears. Then, he looked up into blue eyes watching him so intently, and said bluntly, "Don't do anything heroic in battle tomorrow."

Legolas chuckled softly and asked, "Heroic."

"I need you, Legolas. Don't do anything heroic that might get you hurt."

"Have I ever been careless in battle?"

"Too many times to mention, although I might mention Helm's Deep as a prime example. You ran into that keep without any thought of your own safety. I don't want you doing the same thing here. I need you alive and fighting my corner."

In Legolas' eyes shone regret and Aragorn felt a pang of guilt for mentioning anything. "I will do nothing to endanger you or myself, if that is what you want. I will not be reckless."

"Thank you." Aragorn swallowed around the lump in his throat. "You are all I have."

After a brief squeeze of Aragorn's shoulder, reinforcing his presence at his side and his promise to his guardian, Legolas stood up, remaining stooped ready to pull the man up off the step. "Come on, you need to get some rest."

Ignoring the hand he held out ready to help him up, Aragorn ran his hand over his eyes, "I don't think I'll be able to sleep."

"Try. You never know."

"Are you going to bed tonight?"

Legolas quirked a smile at him. "Well, that's different. I don't have a bed to go to."

"Faramir never found you somewhere?"

"He doesn't like me much."

"I wonder why."

Laughing softly, Legolas bent down and took Aragorn's arm, dragging him up and ignoring the protests he received at doing so. "Yes, I wonder." He turned the young man around, retrieving Anduril at the same time – not that any other would take the sword – and led him inside.

Given that Osgiliath was filled past habitual capacity, many were packed into the few suitable abodes in the centre of town, bedding down anywhere they could. Aragorn had stayed with the Rangers at his request. It was where he felt most comfortable. Of course, he wondered at Legolas not being with him, but he knew how his guardian was about being around people, especially Humans and especially indoors, he'd just assumed that it had been Legolas' choice to keep his distance. Really he should have known that it was Faramir's doing and that, given that Legolas knew how much Aragorn had on his mind right then, he wouldn't mention his exclusion from Osgiliath's community.

Aragorn's belongings had been put upstairs. He didn't have his own room; that would have been impractical, but he had a prime spot close to the warmth of the fire and the Men of Osgiliath had laid out fine furs for him. It was more than most got and Aragorn was grateful for it.

"Right," Legolas whispered so as not to disturb the sleeping Rangers around him, "lie down for a while."

"How can they sleep?"

"They're used to it." Legolas helped the man lie down and then whispered so softly that no one but Aragorn could possibly hear, "Or they don't know any better."

"I think I prefer ignorance."

"Most wise people would object to that. But I happen to agree with you."

"So, you're agreeing that you're not wise then?" chuckled Aragorn to Legolas' slight consternation. That he had improved his ward's mood though swept all thoughts of irritation away. "Where are you going now?"

As he tucked the furs around his ward, Legolas replied, "To check that everything is prepared."

"Isn't that something I should be doing?"

"No. You should be conserving your energy for tomorrow." Aragorn nodded in earnest. He was tired. Much had been going on recently he had barely had time to rest. "Go to sleep. It's a few hours before you need to be up." Legolas stood from his crouch now, leaving with the assurance, "I'll be around if you need me."

"I'll see you before, right?"

"Of course. I will find you."

**To Be Continued…**


	66. The Battle Of Pelennor Fields Part 1

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks so much for the lovely reviews. Enjoy chapter 66.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 66 **

**The Battle Of Pelennor Fields Part I**

**Minas Tirith**

Minas Tirith stood tall and threatening in the distance. So much taller and more threatening than it had ever seemed before. For so long the people of Osgiliath had stared, wondering at how far away from them their once proud city looked to them. And yet now, standing on the edge of the City of Stars, Minas Tirith seemed closer than it ever had, looming over them like a beast of the Shadow itself. Stone had never looked so terrifying. The grey light of dawn did the white walls little justice and although it looked washed out it nevertheless seemed impressive to the Humans who watched it so intently and seemingly through different eyes than they were used to.

They were waiting for the command. Faramir stood with Aragorn and Janor and Jecha at the front of the line, safe in the knowledge that the eyes of the Enemy would not be on Osgiliath yet. No one within the White City would know anything of the attack until the Human army reached the Pelennor Fields and by then it would be too late to stop the uprising. There would be no turning back.

Everyone, even the most seasoned of warriors, was tense. This was always the hardest part of any battle; waiting. No one knew why exactly they waited. None stood amongst the ranks could have guessed that it was simply because the Steward of Gondor was building up the nerve to call the command and the King of Gondor was waiting patiently at his side, unwilling to circumvent the man's command over his people, for most of them were of Gondor anyway. Aragorn had been determined that Faramir should be the one to shout the command and not him. It was, after all, the Steward's rightful place.

The shifting impatient shifting of feet seemed loud and some in the assembled army irrationally worried that such movement might alert anyone watching from the towers of the Great Gate of the intentions of the Men of Gondor in Osgiliath.

But Minas Tirith remained quiet and still. The Orcs would be retreating into the halls now, for although the meagre sunlight that could filter through the thick layers of clouds could do them no harm, it still caused them discomfort and they did not like being exposed to it for too long. The changeover would be seamless; so many times had it been practiced and performed. The Men were not waiting specifically for that event. But the bulk of the Orc and Goblin guards and patrols would retreat into the bowels of the city at the coming of daylight and it would take time once they were inside for them to mobilise again, giving the Men opportunity to make some progress across the now desolate farmland that had once made up the Pelennor Fields approaching the city. It was not a great amount of time but it was all they had and they had to take advantage of everything they possibly could.

Unfortunately, there was only one way into the city; no back door through which they could sneak as there had been when the Rohirrim and Rangers had stormed Helm's Deep. The Great Gate stood on the first level facing Osgiliath and that was the only way one could gain access. Really, the city had been built ingeniously, better, Legolas mused as he squinted to get a good look at the lower tier, even than the fortress of Helm's Deep had been in Edoras.

He and everyone else knew that the very moment the order was called and the Men left the relative safety of Osgiliath and climbed the remains of the Rammas Echor, the great wall surrounding the Pelennor Fields, destroyed to ruins when Minas Tirith had first been taken by the Shadow, the creatures on sentry duty facing the plains would see the attack and launch a defensive of their own. Still, Faramir and Aragorn hoped that they would gain enough distance before they managed to mobilise their forces, still in disarray during the changeover.

The tension in the ranks grew worse the longer they waited. Murmurs of discontent started up. After all the waiting for this moment, they wanted to get going.

Nevertheless, Faramir made them wait. The longer they waited, hopefully the longer it would take for the Orcs to get themselves together. Too long and their massing on the edge of the city would be spotted by the refreshed Orc lookouts immediately.

For days previous, the Pelennor Fields had been shrouded in the familiar thick fog, concealing the barren land and the White City almost entirely. During the planning of their attack, Faramir had explained that the Fields often looked the same, the mists rolling off the river and blanketing the plains. They had been relying somewhat on such an occurrence this morning too. Thick grey fog would have been highly effective in concealing their approach. But this morning their luck had run out. Aragorn had woken to the first clear day in weeks, not as much as a trace of fog covering the White City. Disappointment had swelled in him for he knew that this good weather would only make things more difficult for their plan. He had rushed around, searching out the commanders, undecided as to whether the assault should go ahead or be postponed. But Faramir had been insistent; Aragorn had talked him into this in the first place, they had finalised the plan, told everyone of it; they could not renege now.

And so, now they stood, waiting for the order to attack, staring with unconcealed fear at the object of their want. Gondor was going to be changed, one way or another this day.

"All right, we cannot wait any longer," Faramir finally spoke through the hush, quietly to Aragorn at his side. "Agreed?"

"Yes." Aragorn glanced to Eomer, Jecha and Jada, who all stood with him, waiting. They all nodded in turn and Aragorn said to Faramir, "Let's go." For a beat, there was uncertainty amongst the commanders once again. Only Legolas, standing slightly behind Aragorn, out of the way, seemed undaunted by the prospect of what was to come, although Aragorn could not be sure that this wasn't simply a ruse to falsify calm. Legolas had seen this kind of war before. That he looked undaunted was not of any great comfort now to his ward.

"Everyone clear on the plan?"

Nods of assent. They had been over it so many times that it was all but impossible to be ignorant.

"Should we say something first, to the men?" asked Aragorn.

"Be my guest."

Glancing over his shoulder, Aragorn said softly, "They are mostly of Osgiliath. Perhaps you should."

The prospect of having to give a speech of encouragement to his men and the others filled Faramir with dread. He'd never even witnessed a rousing speech before – it was never a part of his father's leadership – and he certainly had never had to give one.

Nevertheless, Faramir turned to his men, who silenced at his presence. They knew it was time.

Raising his sword above his head, the Captain of Osgiliath called, "For Gondor!"

With that, the command was given and the Men of Gondor surged forward with a collective cry. Most had never seen battle before. They were afraid. And yet the thrill of finally moving, the sound of the fierce passion of battle cries coming from the most seasoned warriors spurred them on and they joined in with relish for it bolstered their courage sufficiently to get them moving. Fear fled the front of their minds, although it lingered in their consciousness all the same, smothered for the time being by a surge of adrenaline.

Those first few yards across the Pelennor Fields were understandably filled with nervous tension from all quarters. Inevitably, the few moments of bravado brought on by the thrill of following behind renowned commanders in aid of the greater good of Mankind and the downfall of Shadow wore off, replaced by apprehension and many fast-tiring pounding of legs on dry dirt.

Pelennor was vast. Once farmland, long since grown barren under the cold watch of the Shadow, it was an unbroken plain with no shelter. The only incline was the steep hill leading up to the face of Minas Tirith itself and the slight rise atop which the Rammas Echor, the surrounding wall, was built.

The wall was traversed easily enough. But for the odd pile of rock to trip up the advancing Men, there was little of it left after the Shadow had torn it down during the first bid to seize Minas Tirith long ago.

Within moments of leaving the relative safety of Osgiliath, it became obvious that the advancing army of Men had been spotted. Perhaps the Uruk lookouts were more vigilant than predicted but even above the pounding of hundreds of feet on the ground, their cries of shock and urgency could be heard from the parapets. A loud, low horn could be heard in the distance as they sounded the alarm, announcing the attack to any creature within the city's walls. No doubt this was an unexpected occurrence. None within the city could have anticipated such a thing for the Men had given no indication of such despite being closely observed. Of course, it had been noticed, the increase of Men recently, but the spies of Minas Tirith dismissed it as unimportant. After all, no one would be stupid enough to take on the might of the Shadow.

Halfway across the plains, the Men split.

Eomer took the Rohirrim left of the city whilst Janor led the Rangers and Jecha's company right so they formed an unbroken line only five men deep at most points surrounding the city, still racing forward, undeterred by the desperate calls to arms wailing in the air all around them. A wall between Minas Tirith and Osgiliath. No Orc was going to get past them this day. For, although they wanted to reclaim the White City for themselves, they were not going to surrender Osgiliath to the Shadow either. The innocents, the children, elderly and infirm – those who could not fight - hid in Osgiliath's centre and they must be protected at any cost.

From the walls of Minas Tirith, the advancing mass of Men must have looked impressive, frightening even.

There was little chance of the Men reaching the city walls before the army of Shadow pulled themselves together and sent out a defensive force, the Men all knew that. They were not proven wrong.

The massive iron and steel Great Gates on the first level yawned open with a great squeal of protest to reveal nothing but a courtyard of black, moving bodies; the Orcs had mobilised. They poured out of the gateway as one, a river of unsteadily moving creatures, all brandishing weapons and coming forth with dreadful battle cries in their own fierce language. The Shadow was not going to give up Minas Tirith without a mighty fight. It meant too much to their master. At all costs, they had been ordered to defend the fortress.

Aragorn almost faltered when he saw what they were up against for the first time. Faramir's most excessive guess at Orc numbers encamped in Gondor was massively lacking, he realised. There were thousands, tens of thousands perhaps. Aragorn had no idea whether these Orcs were the entire contingent within the city or just a portion of the vast number. Either way, it was beyond them, that much was immediately obvious.

Still, they could not now retreat. Now that they had been spotted advancing, retreat was impossible. If they made for Osgiliath the creatures would chase them down and no doubt destroy them and everyone else for their brazen attempt at a takeover. Men had declared war on the Shadow and now they had to see it through.

Even the most experienced amongst the warriors going into battle this day felt the sting of fear as they clashed with the vast army of Minas Tirith.

Battle cries were replaced by the fierce clashing of weapon on weapon. A whole line of Men crashing as one with the Orcs. The noise was deafening. Aragorn immediately felt himself crushed as excitable men shoved him forward into the waiting Orc army, which attempted to push them back. Anduril felt too big for fighting in such confined conditions and yet every blow he wielded hit strong and true. The sword of kings was a powerful weapon and although the Orcs did not shrink in fear from it as others had done before it remained the perfect weapon for battle.

Almost immediately, Aragorn lost all track of those who had stood at his side during the initial approach. He had gone down the centre with Faramir and the Men of Osgiliath behind him. It felt strange; his allegiance had always been with the Rangers and yet it had been presumed that the king would stand next to the Steward in battle. He had had no opportunity to protest this. And he supposed that it didn't matter anyway. Legolas had been stood right behind him on the edge of Osgiliath and Aragorn had known his presence during the run across Pelennor but as he glanced left and right now, the Elf was lost amidst the chaos. In fact, the only sight of allies he could see were the bright red uniforms of the two Easterling warriors, standing out in the sea of dull armour.

Feeling very much alone in this, Aragorn felt his pulse pounding hard. Each Orc downed by Anduril represented a small victory and he took Legolas' advice and concentrated on that alone. Any thought for his comrades momentarily deserted him as he threw himself, body and soul, into winning this battle. The only way he would see them again was to thin the herd of terrible Mordor creatures.

The Orcs fought hard, considering that they had been so completely taken by surprise. Still, they were creatures bred only for war, this was in their nature. They showed no finesse in fighting, hacking away indiscriminately at any ally of the Light they could find – and even taking out a few of their own in their recklessness. Using any weapon they had handy – swords, knives, scimitars, clubs, their own claws and teeth even - they forced the Men apart, breaking the loose ranks apart with ease. Orc far outnumbered Men and the Shadow knew this.

Despite their relative lack of numbers, the Allied Human Army fought remarkably well. They did not distinguish between foes, simply kept slashing at everything created by the Shadow. And many Orcs fell on the battlefield, for although there were plenty of them, their battle skills were still shoddy at best.

Aragorn himself found killing two in one single blow from his great sword easy enough.

But simply killing the Orcs was not enough, he knew. They had to advance. Minas Tirith still stood looming over them in the distance. Faramir had informed them that the only access to the city was through the Great Gate of Othram on the First Level; that was their target. They had to keep moving forward.

Unfortunately, upon clashing with the wall of Orcs, the Men had been pushed back a little way. Ranks had broken and Men scattered, doing whatever they could to stay alive and kill as many Orcs as they could. Aragorn could not blame them for it. Indeed, he had done the same thing. But it had thrown them into disarray and that would not do.

Slashing low to take an Orc down as it raised its sword to strike at him, Aragorn turned away when presented with the opportunity and shouted over the cacophony, "Rally to me!" Even above the noise of battle, his voice sounded clear and strong. Men turned to look at him, stood tall and proud amidst the chaos, Anduril raised high in the air as he summoned to him his people. "To me!" They needed to reform some semblance of order if they were going to proceed towards Minas Tirith.

Slowly, Men moved to the centre, the message finding its way across the field. It was hardly perfect organisation but after a while Aragorn started to see familiar faces near him, covered though they were with the filth and gore of battle already. Eomer looked undeniably fearsome brandishing not one but two swords of Rohan, so too did Faramir with the Men of Osgiliath staying close by him. For all bonds of allegiance that had been declared, the factions of Men still stuck together. Ranger, Rohirrim, Gondorian. Not that it mattered in the least. As long as they were fighting, that was all that mattered.

Aragorn did immediately note the general absence of many of the younger, inexperienced fighters that Faramir and Eomer had recruited to bolster their ranks. Many had fallen under the first wave of Orcs and perhaps that had been expected. In private, in the dark when the rest of the Council had retired for the night, Faramir had confessed to the king that they needed numbers in the initial stages of the assault and that he knew fully well that many of the untrained Men would not make it to the walled city. Indeed, it seemed that Faramir had been correct. Aragorn felt a stab of terrible guilt but he forced it aside as the Orcs surged at them, attempting once more to disband the reformed ranks.

Together, the Men managed to lessen the Orc numbers significantly, although they paid a great price for it. The ground was littered with Orc bodies but scattered amongst them laid many innocent men and women. So many were dead already and only a fraction of Minas Tirith had emptied onto the Plain so far.

"Aragorn!"

The king spun to see Janor hastening towards him through the clamour. Terror was written all over the young Ranger's face as he shoved aside the Enemy to reach the king.

"Aragorn!" he gasped breathlessly as he reached his companion. "Look to the city."

Diverted as he had been with killing the creatures attacking them, Aragorn had taken his eyes off the city in the distance. Now, he looked towards the First Level and his heart dropped in his chest.

"Oh my…"

From the Great Gates now marched in an orderly fashion, rank upon rank of Uruk-hai. All bore large shields and weaponry. Some carried torches with them, lighting the darkening field. Upon the walls of the city more Orcs and Goblins had lined up, mostly on the Second and Third Levels. On the higher levels stood Goblin archers, ready for the moment that the Men got close enough to fire upon. On the Second Level, Orcs had lined up, some archers but some gathered around large steaming vats. What was contained within, Aragorn did not know but it couldn't possibly have been good.

"What do we do now?" demanded Janor in open fear.

"I…Find Faramir. Find him! Now!"

Shoving past fighting Men, Janor went to do as asked, slashing down anything that sought to halt his progress. This new threat had somewhat diminished his fear of the plain Orcs.

Aragorn watched as the Orcs began to fall back to the city, slowly at first and then faster as the Uruk-hai advanced. The larger creatures walked slowly, marching with surprising uniformity. Ahead of them stood a particularly large Uruk, scarred and already smeared with blood, as though it had been preparing itself for battle by bathing in the blood of its past victims.

They began to form a living wall between the Human army and the city. Aragorn realised that they had unwittingly come closer to Minas Tirith than he had realised. Within, the Shadow had prepared the second defence.

He could not pause long to observe what was happening before him. Many Orcs yet remained on the Plains and they could not be left to re-join their comrades within the city. One problem at a time, Aragorn reminded himself, drawing a breath into his lungs.

The Uruks, however, were not going to wait for the Men to finish killing their lesser brothers and make their way to them. They lined up, spanning the width of the city, moving almost as one, and marched with a loud clattering intermingled with the foul taunts of the creatures as they worked themselves into a frenzy towards the battling Men.

"Commanders!" Aragorn shouted above the increased noise of battle. By now, surely most of the commanders would have noticed this new threat and would be listening out for further orders from their king. "Commanders! Look to the Uruk-hai," he nevertheless shouted as loud as he could manage in an effort to be heard.

Aragorn was fairly confident that his commanding officers would know how to arrange their forces to best defeat this new foe. He raced across the battlefield, having to take extra care not to trip over the numerous bodies now littering the ground, calling the same order over and over until the first sections of Men began moving forward towards Minas Tirith and the living barricade the Uruks had erected.

On his path through the fighting, Aragorn literally bumped into Janor and he tugged at the man's arm, a silent instruction to follow. Pointing with the gleaming blade of Anduril, coated although it was in the black blood of his enemies, he called loudly to those surrounding him, "Rangers! The barricade, drive it back!"

The reaction was instantaneous. Not one person seemed to hesitate at the order being called out by Aragorn, for in many ways he had become as much a commander of the Rangers since Kinnale's passing as Janor was. They surged forwards, undaunted now by the Orcs surrounding them. The Uruks were far greater a challenge and they would not be halted by the lesser creatures of Sauron. If anything, this new threat bolstered the Rangers' anger and gave them new purpose. They would not be stopped from entering Minas Tirith now. There was too much at stake.

Soon the other factions of Men also joined in the assault. Gondorians plunged into the fray led by Faramir who had also heeded the call for aid, followed by the Rohirrim. Now they killed every enemy they encountered and soon the Orc numbers dwindled further for they had become slack in their efforts now that they had been joined by their stronger companions.

The Uruk-hai were a fearsome species, better than their smaller Orc counterparts and they held their ground well. Their ranks were never less than two deep and clearly they were as intent on keeping the Men out as the forces of Light were intent on breaking through to the White City. The more experienced amongst the Men tackled the Uruks, whilst the lesser warriors picked off the remaining Orcs swarming around them. Some of the creatures scattered at this new vicious onslaught, shrinking behind the ranks of their betters.

The Uruk barricade held firm for a long time. Longer than Aragorn would have liked. They were not easily defeated, probably because they knew well the cost of failure. And yet, the Men remained firm in their convictions and pressed the Uruk line backwards towards the City of Men. Commands yelled in the Black Speech of Mordor went up; desperate instructions to beat back the invaders as they gained ground. This heartened the Men further, for it meant they were making some progress.

"Eomer!"

The Rohan commander turned abruptly at the shout that went up through the din. He found the source easily as Legolas. The Elf was fighting his own battle with three Uruk-hai and yet his attention was currently on the man instead of the creatures battling him from three separate angles. It was a cry of warning and it proved invaluable because a huge creature was currently stood behind the Rohan commander, scimitar raised ready for the killing blow that, but for the shout from Legolas, Eomer would never have seen coming. He parried the attack, and after brief combat, the creature fell to the sword of Rohan, joining many of its comrades in the blood-churned dirt.

Eomer looked for Legolas, ready to call his thanks but the Elf had already been absorbed back into the battle. Shrugging, and remembering that the time might soon come when he could and would return the favour, Eomer returned his attention to the Uruk line.

Hours had passed since the dawn assault and the Men's reserves of strength were inevitably starting to dwindle. They were slowing down. Fortunately, they had made a significant dent in the numbers of the servants of Darkness and a little after midday the line of Uruk-hai finally broke. It was impossible to tell exactly which faction of Men had finally broken the ranks but the Men surged through the gap, again bolstered by this success, killing everything that stood in their path, although for the most part the field ahead of them leading to the White City remained clear after the thick Uruk barricade; only Minas Tirith stood proud and strong in the distance.

Men poured through the break in the barricade, stopping all attempts on the part of the Uruk-hai to rebuild the line, and widening it further as they went. It was too late for the Uruk-hai now. They were swallowed up in the sea of Human warriors, elated at this first victory, taken down in their surprise by the experienced among Men until only a few remained. None fled back to the city. Better to die in battle than at the hands of their superiors within the white walls – or worse in Mordor itself. Death was most certainly preferable to that fate.

A victory though this breakthrough was, the forces of Men were still a long way from retaking the fortress of Gondor. Led by the commanders, the Human army raced across the plain. Minas Tirith was so very tantalisingly close. And yet still the Shadow haunted its levels. Archers had been posted on the Second and Third Levels and a few test arrows were unleashed but they still fell far short of reaching the Human invaders.

Far enough away to be untouched by the bolts of the Goblin archers, Aragorn called for the halt and for their own archers to come forward. The archers, those who had survived the Fields, dashed forwards, taking their stance and firing up at the city walls. Predictably, their own arrows fell short too.

With a wave of his hand, Aragorn signalled the advance, although at a slightly slower pace this time. They had no shields to protect them – all such defensive weaponry that may once have existed in Osgiliath had been broken down and used for firewood in times past. It was a matter of which side was better equipped in the art of long distance warfare. With nothing left behind them to threaten them, the Men moved slowly, edging forward, pausing every time a barrage of arrows was released from the city walls.

Then, a single arrow flew from the ranks of Men, sailing effortlessly high through the air and hitting true in the forehead of a weedy Goblin on the Second Level. For a moment nothing happened. This was a show of strength and precision, nothing more. And then, the Shadow reacted, badly, to the assault on one of their own. Arrows flew indiscriminately from Minas Tirith, most of them hitting the ground a fair distance away, one of two reaching the ranks of Men. The Goblins were furious that it had been the Human archer that had made the first kill and they were reacting in the only way they knew how: with unrestrained fury and reckless attack. Loud shouts of anger, crude words in the Black Tongue, came forth, washing over the already noisy battlefield and drowning out the cries of the dying.

After a while, another arrow was sent soaring through the air, hitting yet another Goblin, which fell from its precarious perch on the very edge of the wall where it had positioned itself in an effort to gain an extra few inches closer to the battlefield, to land on the ground at the base of the city. A call of anger came from the Goblin army again and on the levels they ran back and forth until they were repositioned although it made no difference, few of their arrows reached the Men below, stopped as they were a safe distance away.

Murmurs of appreciation and good humour struck up amongst the weary Men and they turned their heads, looking for the accomplished shooter amongst their ranks.

At the front, Aragorn smiled thinly. He needed no proof of who this bold archer was, for it could only have been Legolas. How terribly angry Sauron would have been, Aragorn pondered as he watched another Goblin tumble from the walls and the others make a subtle retreat back as if that might save their hides from well-aimed Elven-crafted arrows, had he known that an Elf was single-handedly picking off the army encamped at Minas Tirith.

But it could not last. Legolas had a limited supply of arrows and he knew better than to waste them on unnecessary showmanship when battle loomed. So when the Goblins began their retreat a little way from their posts, fearing this archer who was besting them with such ease, he called the advance, knowing that Aragorn would hear and follow the instruction. And it was so. Waving Anduril high in the air for all to see, Aragorn took advantage of the momentary lapse in bravery of the Goblin guards and the Men of Gondor surged forwards, racing up the so called Hill of the Guard, the steep incline leading up to the First Circle and the Great Gate.

Taken by surprise at the sudden advance, the Goblins struggled for a moment to reorganise themselves and so by the time the arrows started flying again, the Men had covered some considerable distance which would not have been possible without the distraction.

The Shadow Army though was prepared for anything. They had had a long time to prepare the City for this type of assault, although inwardly they had always been confident that the people of Osgiliath, running scared as they were, would never launch such an assault. Plans had been made meticulously, drills performed each and every day.

Many Men fell to the small, precise Goblin arrows, and many Goblins fell to flying Human shafts during the advance. But many of them lived to reach the level plain that led to the pathway winding up to the Othram. Those that did were confronted with something worse than arrows.

Orcs lined the Second Level also, directly above the Great Gates gaping open in invitation to the Human invaders. They had long ago, when the Tower first came under the control of the Shadow, installed great iron cauldrons along the walls, fuelled by fires and filled with oil or pitch, a thick black tar that could be poured from above on the attacking forces below to halt their progress into the city. They scrambled now to man them.

Faramir saw this coming, saw the smoke, thick and acrid, rising from the Second Level and shouted the warning to his kinsmen. They were trapped now and the Orcs knew it. They poured the oil and the thick, steaming tar down, forming a liquid curtain across the entrance to Minas Tirith, forcing the army to a halt where they were trapped directly in range of the Goblin archers or be burned by the boiling liquids. The smell was indescribable. Men coughed and retched and the potency of the fumes emitted as the wind blew the smoke over them as if in collusion with the Shadow, commanded by the Dark Lord himself.

One thing that perhaps the Orcs had not considered carefully enough when fortifying the city was the masses of smoke and steam the boiling liquid belched out, billowing in the direction of the wind and effectively concealing the Men below from the archers above. But it didn't matter. They had formed a barrier that the Men could not cross and that any sane Man would not try.

For now, Minas Tirith seemed once again impenetrable to the United Men of Gondor.

"Retreat!" Faramir yelled to his people as the steam rose from the boiling liquid pooling on the ground, billowing over his men and covering them in mildly stinging, scalding smoke. "Retreat." He could hardly see the ground beneath his feet but he moved backwards, simply hoping that he was on the right path for he could not see through the rising steam.

There was little point in pushing forward with the way so blocked and an army that had lost the ability to walk was as useless as no army at all.

"Retreat!"

He heard the men following his voice, panic filling them as they sought relief from the fumes. As he moved away from the wall of the First Circle though, something heavy dropped from the sky, landing just in front of him. Startling, he looked up, the fumes stinging his eyes and making them stream. A whoosh close by sounded and he recognised it as the sound of a fast-flying arrow, which was closely followed by another loud thump as a heavy bulk dropped to the ground although this one was followed by a loud, high-pitched shriek of agony – an Orkish cry – as it splashed helplessly in the thick, burning liquid, unable to flee the pain.

Turning his head and swiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket to clear them, Faramir searched about for the source of the archer, for it must surely have been an archer on the ground that was blindly picking off those creatures manning wall. Before he could though find the source, another body fell, this one close enough for him to see even through the smoke. It fell just on the edge of the expanding pool of oil, splashing the liquid up and catching Faramir on the leg. The boiling substance immediately burned and he hopped about for a moment, desperately swiping at the scald with the sleeve of his jacket in an attempt to prevent further damage.

"Come on!" a loud command came from Faramir's side and when he didn't immediately respond to the enigmatic order, a strong hand snagged his arm at the elbow and dragged him forward towards the simmering oil, which although rapidly cooling was still too hot to traverse.

Blinking to clear his vision, Faramir recognised the person at his side as Legolas. "What are you doing?" he demanded as he was dragged forward.

"We must hurry before we lose cover," Legolas insisted, not slowing.

He could do little as the Elf pulled him along. At first he could not determine what was happening but a second later he realised. Legolas had shot Orcs and Goblins down from the wall, enough that they formed a narrow bridge across the boiling oil. Some still lived but most had been killed by either the arrow shot with deadly accuracy at them or the fall.

Legolas skipped easily across the makeshift bridge, knowing that they were shielded by the steam rising from the boiling liquids for the time being. Faramir moved close behind him, using Legolas as a guide as to where was safe to tread rather than daring to cast his stinging eyes downwards. Already he was calling the order for the advance to follow him into the city. It was a precarious way across but most of the Orcs proved a good bridge.

Legolas reached the Great Gate first and was mildly surprised to find it still standing open as if in welcome. Killing the Orcs to make a way across the expanding moat of boiling oil and pitch, he hadn't thought about what would come next or how he would gain access to the city itself should the Orcs have done the sensible thing and shut the gates on the intruders. But, as had become routine, the armies of the Shadow were a complacent people. They had every confidence that all their measures of defence would work flawlessly and that they would not be outwitted by the attacking armies of Light. It was again their biggest weakness. Legolas leapt the last few feet onto solid, untouched ground just within the Great Gates of Minas Tirith. The first creature of the Light to have set foot there in decades.

He did not pause to relish the moment of triumph though. Racing through the high, impressive archways that greeted visitors to the White City, he searched for the closest gathering of Orcs and found it easily enough; the second wave beginning to assemble, presumably being prepared to chase the Men of Osgiliath back over the plains and cut them off in their own city.

They did not know what hit them. Strength bolstered by their first taste of true success the Men of Gondor ploughed into the Orcs, cutting all down in their wake. It was a sight to behold, the armies of Faramir, Eomer and Janor all combined, working in harmony as they swept through the entrance to the First Level.

As he passed, Legolas swept up two quivers full of Orc arrows from the dead creatures and hurried around the First Circle, slowly inclining upwards and leading to the Second. Minas Tirith consisted of seven levels in total and Legolas had to assume that each one of them was guarded and inhabited by at least some dreadful agent of the Shadow and he wanted to clear them out as fast as possible.

Behind him, Legolas heard footsteps but he could not pinpoint who they belonged to and he dared not slow his pace to check. They were the footsteps of Man and thusly not of any threat or interest to him.

Every Orc he passed that came at him with such confidence at stopping these wretched intruders on the sanctuary of Shadow in the eastern realms was taken down with a single swipe of impossibly sharp blades. The white handled knives, gifted to Legolas from his home in Mirkwood before its demise, were already strained heavily with the black blood of the Shadow but he was not done yet. His arms and hands may have ached cruelly from the exertion of battle but there was strength yet left in the Elf of the Woodland Realm. Minas Tirith would be back in the hands of Men once more before the nights' end, of this, Legolas was determined.

Determination washed over the Men of Osgiliath too. For many years they had watched as their once proud and beloved city fell to the influence of the Shadow, kept at a distance from them by the faintheartedness of their disillusioned ruling Steward. Now that they were here, walking on ground stolen from their people years ago and tainted by the horror of the Shadow, they were encouraged by the end in their sight, that they would regain this most powerful city for their own.

They killed the contingent of Orcs waiting at the entrance to the First Level with cries of glee. Then they followed their commander, Faramir, standing bravely at the head where his father would have shrunk from sight, through the entranceway into the First Circle.

It was all but impossible to get lost in Minas Tirith. The main street branched off into smaller roads, once residential perhaps back when Minas Tirith had been inhabited by Men, but the main way through the city was obvious enough and the Men knew that they need only follow the gentle incline upwards to reach the gate to the Second Level.

Aragorn had seen Legolas race through this way earlier, followed closely by Jecha and his companion Chel, the giant non-Westron-speaking Haradhrim. Had not Minas Tirith not been so easy to navigate, it would not have mattered today, for all Aragorn had to do was follow the trail of slain Orcs left behind.

When he finally caught up with his guardian and friends, they were engaged in battle once again. The Uruk-hai commanders had sent down some of the Goblins to confront the Men before they breached the Second Gate. Goblins were wily, fast creatures with little sense but good fighting skills and it was showing now. Legolas and Jecha, even with the help of their bulky friend, had made no further progress towards the Second Gate. However, the Goblins backed up a little at the sight of the advancing line of Men who had followed behind Faramir and Aragorn.

Once again plunging into battle, Aragorn found himself immediately surrounded by the small, lithe creatures. With their sickly grey skin and huge, wide eyes, adapted perfectly for the darkness of their natural homes deep in the caves, they made for a curious and frightening sight. Aragorn's experience with killing these creatures was limited. But hacking at them with his sword seemed to do the trick so he stuck with what he knew and Anduril shed yet more blood turning white stone black.

"Legolas!"

The cry went up, although the Elf wasn't certain who it came from. Nevertheless, he looked up, his attention diverted from the battle he'd become engaged in. He had hoped to reach the Second Level of the city without such a diversion but he had expected it nonetheless. The reason for the cry of his name became evident a moment later when arrows started raining down on the Men from the tier above them. Some Goblins had remained and were shooting down at both their own kind and the Men mixed in amongst them.

"Damn!" Legolas cursed to nobody in particular. In such close quarters, his bow was all but useless; he'd be cut down if he couldn't defend himself. "Dwarf!" he called to the closest creature to him, which just happened to be the younger of the two Dwarves from Jecha's patrol. He was not overly surprised that they had survived the initial battle. The Dwarven folk, for all their many faults in the eyes of the Elves, were a sturdy people who would not be beaten by the armies of Shadow whilst still they had breath in their bodies. And, Gimli's – for Legolas thought that was his name – presence might actually prove a blessing. His many tales to Aragorn around the fires at night, had revealed that he had come from under the mountains with his father – Gloin – and thus would be more adept than most at killing these wretched creatures of Darkness.

The Dwarf looked up at the call, great battle-axe that seemed almost too big for his small frame, poised for another killing blow upon any creature that ventured close enough for attack. Surprise registered in brown eyes beneath bushy eyebrows and understandably so. Legolas had yet to address either Dwarf during the years they had known each other.

"Goblin archers," Legolas shouted, pointing with his finger up to the rim of the Third Level and Second Level where the arrows were coming from. "I need cover."

For a moment or two it looked like the stout Dwarf warrior would protest, probably because of his inherent dislike of Legolas and Legolas' complete disregard not only of him but also of his father and the Dwarven race in general. But then duty and honour took over from any irritation he felt. He hefted his axe up, inviting Legolas to join him, ensuring that the Elf was confident of his commitment.

"The Dwarves will guard the Elves," he said in his own tongue, apparently confident that Legolas would not understand the slight against his people.

"Glad to hear it," Legolas called almost merrily over his shoulder as he strode away through the battling Men and Goblins.

For a second, Gimli stood, mouth open in shock that not only had the Elf understood the words he had spoken but that he had replied in the same language. He cast his mind back over all the insults shared in the language of the Dwarves over the fire about the Elf's aloofness and coolness towards them. That Legolas had understood every word of it whilst he and his father had been so amused at the prospect of sniping behind the pompous creature's back.

Nevertheless, there was work to be done on the battlefield now and Gimli would not disgrace the lost house of his father or the reputation of the Dwarves as a loyal and dutiful people out of spite for the Elf. For they were united now, the Free Peoples – Man, Elf and Dwarf – and they could trust only each other in the land of Darkness.

"I have your back, Elf," Gimli swore as he caught up with Legolas.

Reaching the edge of the skirmish, in a good enough if not ideal position to take out the opposition's archers, Legolas dumped his two stolen quivers packed with crudely rendered Orc arrows down on the ground.

"Here will do. Watch my back, Dwarf and I will watch the threat to you from above."

With a nod, Gimli turned his attention to the battle. From his position, he could see both sides of the road, although the dark alleyways branching off from the main path concerned him a little. From one end of the road nearest the Second Gate, the sounds of battle raged on and Gimli found his fingers itching to spill blood with his treasured axe, the only thing besides his stylised helm that had survived the attack on his home under the mountains. But he had sworn now a duty and he would not renege.

A soft whoosh sounded from behind him, followed by a distant wail of pain as a Goblin met its end at the point of a perfectly aimed Elven shot. Gimli found himself mildly impressed by the precision and speed. Each shot was followed by a cry or a thump as a Goblin fell from the upper levels. He was not inactive himself. Stray Orcs were making their way up, those spared by accident or design on the battlefield outside, having made their way across the boiling oil poured down by their masters. They sped up at the sight of the Dwarf but none got anywhere close to Legolas. And the Elf seemed perfectly at ease where he was. He did not once falter to glance behind him to ensure his safety, although Gimli found himself doing just that several times. Perhaps the Elf's trust in his unlikely companion was more absolute than Gimli had suspected, or maybe he was simply concentrating too hard to be bothered for his own life. He remembered Aragorn, on one of his more congenial nights, telling those gathered around the fire that once his guardian had been a great warrior amongst his people. So far, to Gimli at least, Legolas was living up to that great praise.

"We have to move," Legolas called to him as he continued to watch the road through the city.

"Where?"

However, Legolas grabbed Gimli's arm, leaving behind an empty quiver but taking another partially full one with him. "This way."

Rather than leading him back towards the battle, Legolas dragged Gimli down one of the many side-streets that branched off from the main.

"Where are we going?" asked the Dwarf, puffing at the pace Legolas set and unable to slow down due to the Elf's tight grip on his arm. "Do you even know?"

"How do you feel about sneaking up behind the Goblin attackers, my Dwarven friend?" Legolas asked as he navigated his way, more through sheer instinct than knowledge, through the narrow streets of Minas Tirith.

"Sounds dangerous."

"Indeed."

Gimli's face lightened. His axe had not slain the last Goblin this night. All Dwarves were accustomed to fighting the Goblins of Sauron. They dwelt beneath the ground, side by side with the Dwarven people and were perhaps their greatest enemy. It had been the Goblins that had sacked his own city beneath the mountains in Erebor. They had attacked as one, great swarms of them all at once, driving the Dwarves from their homes and out of their cities. Then they had systematically exterminated as many as they could, driving them out to meet their kin where they were slaughtered without mercy. Gimli hated them more than any other of the creatures created by Sauron for what they had done. They had killed his mother, his brothers and sisters. It had only been by chance and luck that he and his father had escaped with their lives. Others had escaped too but they had fallen prey to other evils and now it was just Gimli and Gloin, fighting together in this army of strange allies.

"Good. I have been longing to see some action," Gimli grinned in the darkness, no longer struggling to keep up with the prospect of a real battle close at hand.

"All you have seen today already has not been enough?" came Legolas' cool voice.

"Never enough when one is thirsty for revenge."

Gimli's words struck a nerve and Legolas felt his heart falter for a beat. Revenge. Yes, he had longed for that once too, longed to avenge the deaths of his people in Mirkwood. And yet, where the Dwarf had persisted and was not about to appease his longing for absolution from past sins, Legolas felt he remained stuck, for the truth was that it would never be enough for his heart. Even if they regained Minas Tirith and he saw Aragorn sat on the throne as he had promised Arathorn in his dying moments, even if they slaughtered every Orc in Gondor and beyond, he couldn't help but feel that he would never find true peace. And yet, he kept running, moving lithely through the shadows of long deserted abodes back towards the battle via a roundabout route. For Aragorn he would endure. Had he not always promised himself that? And Minas Tirith would not be the end. Even if they reclaimed the White City and all of Gondor then Sauron would yet live in Mordor and peace could not come to Arda as long as he continued to breathe. So what then? Would he march to Mordor behind his ward, not really needed and yet clinging to his duty just the same? Yes. He always would do so. For what was he if not the guardian of the King of Gondor? And when Aragorn was crowned? When all of Gondor bowed low before him and Middle Earth was liberated, free of Evil? Legolas knew he would stay even then. His duty would not end with this battle, or even this war.

One moment at a time. Never look too far into the future. Elrond had admonished him once as a young Elfling when he had confessed he longed to possess the gift of foresight as did the Wise of their race. Knowing the future could be as much a curse as not, the great Elven lord had cautioned him. One must live in the moment. Legolas had given that very advice to Aragorn on the eve of this battle and he struggled now to reinstate it into his own mind.

"This way," he commanded to the Dwarf, who now followed without coercion behind him.

He led Gimli towards the Second Gate. True to form, the Uruk-hai commanders, engineering this defence from the Upper Levels, had anticipated only a frontal assault. They had not imagined that Men could be so sneaky as to creep up behind the Goblin army and drive them away from the Second Gate.

Slowing, Legolas turned right down an alley and they were on the path to the main roadway through the city, parallel almost to the Gate. As expected, the Goblins had gained some ground and pushed the Men back a little way. It was a good thing for Legolas and his Dwarven companion though.

"Good luck, my friend," Legolas said in the language of the Dwarves, which although rusty from lack of use, still served him well enough now.

"And you."

With that, they raced down the alley, Gimli plunging immediately back into the fray, taking the startled creatures completely by surprise. Legolas hung back, firing a few arrows before he too joined in with the hand-to-hand combat, as determined as ever that Minas Tirith would belong to the race of Men before the sun rose over Gondor.

**To Be Continued…**


	67. The Battle Of Pelennor Fields Part 2

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 67**

**The Battle Of Pelennor Fields – Part II**

**The Levels**

Night had fallen but Minas Tirith remained unnaturally illuminated. Torches flared from the upper levels, lit by the creatures above, even as Pelennor fell dark and quiet in the distance, swallowing the devastation that remained scattered on the blood-drenched soil. For all the almost reverential quiet below, the city itself remained in utter chaos though, the battle not halting for anything as insubstantial as the night. Not long after nightfall, the Second Gate had been breached by the forces of Men and the blockade of writhing Goblins slaughtered without mercy, their bodies not presenting much of a barricade now they couldn't brandish their weapons. From above in the upper levels, the remaining Goblin archers continued to fire their small but deadly darts down to the invaders below but most by now had retreated further up the city's tiers in a pitiful but nevertheless heartening display to the Men of self-preservation; they were heedless of their masters' furious commands to stand their ground, overwhelmed by their natural inclination to retreat from the fury of their attackers. They knew that the Men were on a mission here and would not surrender the ground now that they had had a taste of it.

Thanks to Legolas and Gimli and their earlier attack on the Goblin archers from below and the foul creatures' innate cowardice, only a handful remained standing on the lip of the Second and Third Levels with their short bows drawn and ready for whenever a target presented itself. The Rohirrim took most of these remainders out not long before midnight enveloped the city. They must have seen what was coming and yet these remaining stubborn or mindless creatures did nothing to save themselves from their respective fates. They were afraid perhaps of their Uruk masters, more so even than the wrath of the invaders to their besieged sanctuary of Shadow.

Level Three fell to the armies of Light with remarkable ease that none in the forces of Men could have predicted. They swept as one through the third tier, killing everything that dared stand in their path. Remarkably few Men had fallen to the creatures of Darkness since entering the city; perhaps because they were the more experienced amongst the warriors who had survived the initial stages of battle and were not as easily defeated as their less seasoned kin. Each small victory, each yard of stained white stone gained in the name of Freedom, spurred them on further and faster and, although for the most part they were bone weary from their long exertions, they fought on, heedless of exhaustion or injury.

Aragorn was followed almost constantly by the ever-loyal Rangers. Janor, Kalub, Tarsem, Veron and Ciaran kept close to him whenever they could, self-appointed protectors of the King in his rightful home. Jecha at some point had taken his own people off in another direction, clearing out the Second Level perhaps just to be certain of its safety before moving on for fear that inattentiveness would lead to them becoming trapped within the city and thus make them more vulnerable than ever. Legolas, Aragorn had not seen since the skirmish before Second Gate. He'd heard the Goblin archers fall and had known instinctively that it was his guardian removing the threat without flair or permission. He had seen Legolas once at the Second Gate with the Dwarf, Gimli; the two of them working together to clear some of the threat before taking off by themselves once more. But since that moment, he had seen no sign at all of Legolas.

Probably because Legolas kept pushing staunchly onwards, taking each Gate smoothly and as quickly as he could manage and taking various Men who caught up to him with him as he went.

He surged forwards, never halting once, always seeking a way past the forces positioned to halt him. As almost a herald of the coming of Men, he proceeded. One Elf against the armies of Mordor was perhaps not much, but the fierce look in stony blue eyes, so much like those of the infamous king Thranduil who had fallen in Mirkwood, sent thrills of fear into the hearts of anyone or anything that crossed his path.

The men recognised this. They followed him, the much distrusted and disliked guardian of the King, as though he were a banner of Gondor surging ahead without thought or fear for what awaited him, without protest or hesitation. It was a splendid sight to behold for men who had never before seen one of the Firstborn in action. They were cheered by him, emboldened. As he feared nothing, so they felt the same. Nothing could touch the Prince of Mirkwood. Nothing could halt him in his newly found quest and the Men of Gondor admired that. They fed off his bravado, using it against any enemy he left alive for them to conquer.

Little thought was given to their own true commander, Faramir, who had fallen behind at some point. They would follow Legolas now to whatever end. All previous enmity forgotten as they become one to battle a darkness that if left unchallenged would swallow them whole.

The Fourth Level of Minas Tirith was also easily taken. There was pathetically little fortification in place to halt the progress of the newly invigorated Men. But for the odd Uruk sent down to attempt to halt the advancing army on his own merit, there was no intervention to the advance of the Humans. Easily taken too was the Fifth Level. Here, supplies had been stored by the Shadow. Piles of roughly forged arrows were kept in wooden crates stacked two or three high surrounding the storage area, many emblazoned with the White Hand of Saruman, come from Isengard courtesy of the treacherous Wizard within. This reminder to the Men of the betrayal of the once respected Wizard of Orthanc enraged the Rohirrim and Gondorians alike and they tore the crates apart and snatched up handfuls of arrows as if they had been stolen from them personally and were reclaiming them in the name of their lost kingdoms. Legolas took the time to replenish his own supply, stuffing as many as he could into his two stolen quivers, although his pause on this level was briefer than that of the others. Some Men also retrieved abandoned Orc armour that had been left lying around as an extra defence against the might of Darkness they were up against, uncaring that it smelled so dreadfully of the scourge of Mordor that it was sickening. Legolas would not dirty himself by wearing something so steeped in Evil. Let the Shadow take him if that was the will of the fates. He would not fall looking for all the world like a creature aligned to the Darkness of Sauron. Some of the Men took up shields, all of them bearing the White Hand. They took too swords and daggers, although it appeared that few of these had been fashioned by the Shadow. Indeed, many looked to be of Human design, no doubt stolen by victorious Orc raiders. Anything the Men could carry was stolen for the good of the cause. What a terrible mistake the Uruk-hai leaders had made placing the supplies on this level rather than at the pinnacle of the city where by the time the Men reached them they would be useless in the fight. Still, not one of the army complained at this good fortune. It seemed fitting that the creatures' stupidity should be their downfall.

Legolas, however, pushed those who followed him relentlessly onwards, not allowing them to revel in this small victory over the Shadow for even a moment. It was on this level that he was finally joined by Faramir. The man looked weary and sported a bright red open gash on his cheek, blood hastily smeared away as he had attempted to clean it with his sleeve, but otherwise he looked well enough. He did not pause to resupply but rather joined Legolas to lead the following Men on up the incline towards the Sixth Gate. Legolas said not a word to him as he strode onwards, not even enquiring as to the whereabouts of Aragorn. There was no time to put such worries to rest. They knew that here they were bound to meet resistance, for within Minas Tirith the Uruk-hai still resided and they had been pushed steadily back by the invading force and they had nowhere to run after the Seventh Level. They would not want to become trapped at the peak of Minas Tirith so the two seasoned warriors knew that they would likely make their stand on Level Six. Besides, on the Seventh Level stood the main citadel and the King's court and they would not want the Men to reach that place for that would mean total surrender of the city.

The warriors' prediction proved correct. The Sixth Gate stood proudly open, smaller and less fortified than the others they had come across for the real defences did not extend this far up. Minas Tirith was considered to be impenetrable mainly because of the Othram Gate and the multiple defences on the first couple of levels; invading armies were never expected to get this far. The Uruk-hai had made very few structural changes to the city, but for ravaging it. No gates or traps of Orc construction stood in place of those built by the Men who had constructed the city in the first place. Foolish indeed, Legolas thought with a mix of bitterness and renewed amusement at their enemy.

The barricade they encountered on Level Six was actually formed of pretty much all the Shadow forces still left inside the city. Uruk-hai, Orcs and some remaining Goblins, who milled around behind the larger creatures as if ordered simply to be present for sheer bulk of numbers if not to fight. The front ranks sported tall shields all bearing the mocking mark of Saruman and some bore brightly flaring torches to illuminate the way. Every warrior of the Shadow carried weapons and all looked willing to die to retain control of Minas Tirith. These were not the cowards the Men had met before. They were the last line of defence, willing to do anything in their alliance to the Shadow. They knew that the city meant much to their master in Mordor and they would not surrender it for anything.

Faramir led the charge and Legolas and the other Men followed behind him now. Who they followed, the Steward or the Elf, was not apparent and it didn't seem to matter to either of them. There was no posturing involved between them now. They simply charged as one at the Uruk-hai and Orcs, who stood somewhat bewildered at the unannounced, abrupt action for a moment, perhaps expecting their numbers to have more of a startling impact upon the charging force. The Enemy did not move forward, waiting instead for the Men to come to them. Arrogance, once again shining through. For once, they were entitled to that arrogance though. Their forces were greater than that of the Men, in numbers and strength. They were nigh on unbeatable by the meagre force of Men that remained.

It had been expected, this last defence of Minas Tirith against the invading Men. Also it had been expected that this would be the hardest part. The Men, despite their new invigoration at having gotten so far, were battle-weary, their numbers thinned by the destruction wrought by the Enemy forces. And yet they persevered. Following Faramir's charge and Legolas' shining example of strength, they struck down the Uruk-hai as they crashed into them. One by one they took the Enemy apart, gaining a little more ground on the White City of their people.

Never had Aragorn seen such dedication from a people. During the assault on Helm's Deep, they had not been intending to capture the fortress as such but rather make a statement that they would not be kept out of the lands of Men. It had been a success. But now, the Men of Gondor wanted desperately their ancient capital city back. It was the jewel in the crown of both the Light and the Darkness. Both side wanted it with equal determination and would fight for it with equal passion – although the passion of the Shadow Armies was borne out of fear rather than desire.

Legolas could not help but admire their spirit. He'd seen men and women of all levels of skill falling around him all day and now through most of the night too and yet their courage was undiminished. It rivalled even the dedication of the Elves whilst they'd been defending their besieged homes at the start of the War. He could not remember ever being so impressed with a fighting force. If only he had had the time to compliment them on it. It might not have meant much to them given their attitude towards him but it burned in his heart, their determination. Such devastation they had seen. For decades they had been taught by the Steward Denethor that victory in Minas Tirith was impossible and yet in just a few short weeks, they had completely changed their way of thinking, aligning themselves to the King and going into a war they knew would be more challenging than anything they had ever faced before. It was inspiring, Legolas thought as he parried a blow from an Uruk and took its head off in return for the attack.

A pang of regret plucked at his heart as he stepped over the corpse. Not at the last creature to fall to his blade but rather at how different things might have been in the beginning had the Free Peoples of Middle Earth come together before this. Perhaps Sauron would never have risen to power and the lands of the Free never been surrendered to his might. But that had never been the case. There had been no unity. Men kept to their own lands, for the most part too involved in their own troubles to pay attention to the woes of others; and the Elves had been far too proud to ask for aid from anyone; especially those they had always considered the lesser races. Legolas remembered that he had been instrumental in that decision in the many council sessions he had attended during the war. An inherent distrust of Men had distanced them. What a mighty force they would have been had they consented to work together. But it was not to be. Even the Dwarves had not entreated for help from their neighbours during the war. All this could have so easily been avoided had there only been a little cooperation from the leaders of the lands, Legolas thought as he cut down an Uruk that was currently, having already lost both arms to Legolas' fiercely sharp blades, now trying to bite him instead. And yet it had been reduced to this. Allied Men, aided by a smattering of other races with little chance of genuine victory over an immensely powerful enemy, standing up for what was right. Even the Wise had not predicted such. So recently, in Rivendell, Elrond had scoffed at the very idea of an Elf allied to a Man. If even Elrond could not have foreseen such an alliance then a strange thing it must have been.

The Uruk snapping at him with filthy and already blood-stained teeth made to charge at Legolas, shouting something in the Black Speech. A smooth movement forward of his blade ended that problem and the Uruk crashed to the ground to join several of its comrades without another word.

Taking a moment, Legolas assessed the field. The Goblins were gone; although he had seen a few hurrying away into the dark alleyways of the city, fleeing the battle while they still had a chance of survival. Orcs remained but they were few now. And it seemed that the Men were finally getting the upper hand over the Uruk-hai.

Legolas raised his face to the skies. Dawn was coming. Above them, the sky was a curious mix of grey and pink, as though it knew that battle was raging on below and was reflecting the mood of Arda's people. The mist that Faramir and Aragorn had been so counting on the previous morning but that had failed to materialise when needed had now come back, shrouding the Pelennor Fields and those left struggling for life on it. It mattered little to the fighting warriors though. The mist did not come this far up and they could see before them well enough to see their enemy.

And yet, they were by now desperately tired. Every one of them had reached the limit of their endurance and it was beginning to show. Mistakes were being made. Many had resulted in minor slip-ups and wounds. The occasional Uruk was still falling but they retained their strength even after days of fighting and the Men had been mainly reduced to parrying the blows dealt them simply to stay alive.

Legolas felt the same biting weariness. With little reserves of strength to begin with, it was inevitable. The battle had been exciting to a degree. He always found some rush of adrenaline whenever he was able to spill the blood of the Shadow on the Free Lands of Arda but that could only sustain for so long. Weariness began to settle in sooner or later. Still, it was not over yet. They could not fall at this last hurdle.

"Rangers! To me!" Aragorn's voice rang out loud and clear even over the clamour of battle on the white stones and Legolas felt a beat of relief run through him, for he had seen neither sight nor sound of the man since Pelennor.

Bringing the Rangers together, Aragorn hoped to create a strong united force against the remaining Uruks.

Above this Sixth Tier stood the Seventh, the pride of Minas Tirith and Aragorn did not want the Uruks retreating up there if he could at all help it.

Janor motioned those nearest him to follow and Legolas too answered the King's call.

Mercifully, his ward looked mostly unharmed. He was dripping with a vile mixture of black blood and sweat and Legolas caught a small flash of red on his left arm – a wound sustained in battle. There was a momentary flicker of surprise and similar relief in his grey eyes when Aragorn in turn caught sight of his guardian but now was the time for action, not reflection and gladness at the health of another.

"Gondor!" the young man cried as he led the Rangers against the Uruk-hai, fiercely rallying them for one last spurt of strength and courage against the Shadow.

Cries went up all around, "For Gondor!" and the people seemed somewhat rejuvenated, incredibly given how much they had already endured during this fight. Uruk-hai fell more rapidly after this, alarmed as they were by this renewed show of might.

"Aragorn!" warned Tarsem, the Rangers' scout, gesturing wildly toward the Sixth Gate where a few of the Uruk commanders were currently attempting a retreat into the side streets, recognising the need to get out of the way of the Human attackers.

"Legolas, look to the Gate!" Aragorn called loudly to his guardian, engaged as he currently was in his own fight with a particularly large Uruk intent, it seemed, on hacking off his arm and parting him from Anduril. He knew that his guardian could handle the threat of the commanders fleeing for higher ground.

Legolas kicked out with vicious strength at the creature he was fighting at the sound of Aragorn's call, sending the loathsome being crashing backwards into one of its fellows, and dashed away before either one of them could regain their footing. On his way past, he snatched up the collar of the Dwarf Gimli whom he had worked with earlier in the night, confident as he had become of the stout creature's skill in battle. He would have taken some Men with him as well except amongst them he was still not well liked and he could not guarantee completely that his actions so far that day had changed their opinion sufficiently, besides, the closest to him at that moment was Faramir. With him, Legolas knew it would be more difficult to cut off the Uruks before they reached the top tier of the city.

Gimli grumbled in surprise at the rough treatment but when he realised what was going on he was released from the Elf's grip and ran along behind the lithe creature without further coercion.

"We have to cut them off, Gimli" Legolas told him somewhat breathlessly as he raced up the incline clutching his knives tightly in his hands. "Aragorn does not want them on the upper level." Gimli did not reply but Legolas heard him panting hard just behind him in the effort to keep up and he took this as acquiescence to his plan.

They raced along the main street, passing the occasional side alley, although such were far wider and further between than they had been on the more intricate lower levels. Every few alleys, Legolas caught sight of the glint of shining green eyes in the darkness. Goblins remained hiding in the city and he made a mental note to inform Aragorn that the city would have to be thoroughly cleansed of this evil before it could be finally declared in power of the Gondorians once more. But for the time being the Goblins did not bother Legolas so he did not pay them much heed.

No longer was the Elf moving as quickly as he had earlier down on the lower levels so the Dwarf had little trouble keeping up with him anymore. Twice in this battle, Legolas had required his help; he thought of what his father, so bigoted towards the Elven race in general and towards Legolas in particular, would say when he recounted this notion once the battle was won. A smile almost tugged at his lips but he shoved it back, concentrating on what he had to do in the moment.

"How many are there?" he panted as he ran up the steady sloping path behind Legolas.

"I know not."

"And you didn't think to bring more warriors?" Gimli snapped irritably at the lack of preparation on the part of the Elf.

"Unfortunately I did not." Legolas did not seem at all perturbed by the accusations nor by the fact that there was an unknown number of high-ranking Uruks up there and but two of them. "Come. We must hurry."

"Well, move quicker, then!"

Legolas startled at this. A Dwarf telling an Elf that he was being too slow! And, he realised with a shock that he was indeed moving slowly, barely faster than a jog. And that was about as fast as his aching legs would allow him to travel, he was forced to accept with a thrill of alarm. In fact, he noted with no small amount of irritation, the Dwarf could have easily outpaced him had he had a mind to. But he found that he was just too tired to move any faster. And besides, he reasoned unnecessarily to himself to soothe his aching pride, he was conserving strength for the fight up ahead.

He and Gimli caught up with the fleeing Uruks just as they were about to reach the final gate that led onto the flat plateau of the topmost level of Minas Tirith.

Legolas wished that he had had the forethought to keep his bow to hand but he had dropped it after the Goblins had scattered, foolishly thinking it would no longer be needed. Now all he had was his two white-handled knives and a Human-crafted sword that hung in the scabbard at his side.

Gimli heaved his axe up, ready for the attack and launched himself without preamble forwards with a fierce battle-cry.

The Uruks appeared startled as their footsteps faltered at the unexpected attack. They turned to see what approached them and for a brief moment seemed too stunned to launch a counterattack.

Within moments of Gimli pummelling into their ranks three had fallen to the fine, rune-engraved axe of the Dwarf. Legolas was a moment behind him and took down another by simply and without preamble separating its head from the rest of its body.

There were a mere dozen in total, all leaders of the different clans, Legolas supposed from the marks they carried on their armour and skin. A few bore the chillingly familiar mark of the White Hand, visitors from Isengard; whilst others simply wore black armour, those most likely from Mordor. But they were killed without prejudice. All had the same agenda. All of them were also well schooled in battle despite their elevated status amongst their race. Rather than scattering as Legolas had suspected they might do, leaving the less intelligent among them to stay behind and face the wrath of the Light, they grouped together, weapons swinging in well-practiced movements designed simply to kill what challenged them.

Another two creatures fell to Legolas' blades before things started to go more in the favour of the Uruk-hai. Gimli found his axe suddenly knocked from his hand. Clearly this had never happened to him before because of the look of complete amazement and horror that overcame the Dwarf's heavily bearded face. It would have been amusing to Legolas had the Dwarf's situation not been so perilous. He danced backwards with grace his bulky form did not really look suited for, avoiding being sliced open at the belly by a mere inch, although the tip of the Uruk sword dragged at the material of his padded jacket. He stared up at his attacker, neck craned to see the creatures face.

"Gimli!"

The Dwarf turned at the bellow, reflexes sharp enough even though his astonishment that he easily caught the Elf's white knife by the gleaming handle as it was tossed to him by his companion. He was relieved that it was a knife and not the broadsword that had been thrown to him as this particular blade was actually the perfect length for the shorter Dwarf. He caught it just in time to parry a heavy blow from the Uruk.

Back on track, if not a little put off by the fact that he now fought with an unfamiliar weapon, Gimli sliced at the Uruk's legs, within easy reach of him, and the monster crashed to the ground where it rapidly was finished off by Elven metal.

Legolas found, much to his chagrin, that he was not doing so well as his Dwarven companion. After throwing one of his knives to Gimli in order to provide him with some weapon on the field of battle when he had been disarmed, Legolas had been momentarily disoriented. First mistake: he had not managed to lift his arm fast enough to deflect the sword of one of his attackers. It caught him across the shoulder, ripping into the skin with perfect ease. The pain didn't register for a full minute but when it did he was again thrown.

The second blow delivered was somewhat more severe for the Elf. By now, there were less than half a dozen Uruk-hai standing but they all had plenty of fight left in them. Legolas' already low reserves of energy, meanwhile, were fast dwindling away. He hadn't even noticed the Uruk coming up behind him, nor had he registered until it was too late the warning call that Gimli shouted out. The first he knew of his third mistake was the impossibly sharp pain that ripped through his side.

On reflex and against all his millennia of training, he dropped his weapon to cradle the injury just seconds after the filthy sword was withdrawn from his flesh. He had barely a moment to realise this error. He felt his legs being kicked out from beneath him and he could do nothing to halt his drop to the ground. Stunned at how fast this had all happened, how quickly he had been overcome, Legolas caught himself on his hands before he smashed facedown onto the uneven cobbling of the path. There was little he could do now to defend himself. He had no weapon to hand and from the angle he had fallen he knew he would not be able to retrieve the hefty Human sword at his side from its sheath in time.

He sensed rather than saw the Uruk's sword coming down for the killing blow. It hovered over him for what seemed to him like an excessively long drawn out amount of time.

Before it could reach its target though, Legolas saw a blur of grey and red then heard an almighty crash from behind him. He turned his head to see that the Uruk was now pinned beneath the battling form of the Dwarf, no less powerful because of his stunted size.

The creature ended its life in a haze of its own black blood as Gimli pounded Legolas' own long knife deep into its chest until he felt stone grating at the tip.

"Are you all right?" called the Dwarf from where he still sat astride the hulking Uruk. "Legolas?"

"I'm fine," the Elf reassured back, although he had yet to move from where he knelt on the ground. It was then that he realised that the sounds of battle had died away around him. No Uruks were left standing, rather all were scattered on the ground in various states of disarray. When had that happened he wondered to himself. When had they been victorious?

"Legolas!" Aragorn's voice came clearly over the strange silence. "What happened?"

"I'm all right." Pushing his exhausted body up as he gained his legs, Legolas reassured his ward with a nod. Men came pouring in then, some moving past them to go to the Seventh and final level of the city, as if reaching this final level was the only way to truly ensure victory for Gondor. Aragorn snagged his guardian's arm as he stood; worried that he was not entirely steady on his feet.

"Gimli? Are you well?" Legolas asked, taking the attention away from himself while the opportunity presented itself.

"Never better," grinned the Dwarf, finally getting up from his position on top of the Uruk-hai. "Job done."

"There are still Orcs and Goblins in the city. It will need to be swept."

"Victory is ours and he is still a pessimist," laughed Eomer as he joined them. "I want casualty reports." This was directed at one of the Rohirrim who stood by his side and the man immediately ran off to do as he was told. "Good work, Aragorn."

"If you're still up for some action, Gimli, there are strays to be taken care of," Aragorn ignored the praise from Eomer and was straight back to the task of securing the city properly. It would not truly belong to Man until it had been entirely purged of the Shadow.

"Gladly. My axe has strength in it yet." He bent proudly to retrieve his fallen weapon then went to hand back the white knife Legolas had thrown him. "Good fight, lad. You Elves maybe aren't so bad after all."

A fleeting smile passed over Legolas' pale features. "Thank you. A great compliment coming from you, master Dwarf."

"Do not let my father know I said that though," added Gimli with such seriousness that Aragorn had to struggle to stifle his laugh at the inherent pride of the Dwarf. Laughter, he thought, would not be well received.

"I will take it with me to my grave."

Gimli laughed heartily then, looking almost as though he had not been fighting the Shadow for nearly two days now. Legolas could not imagine that he or many others in the city looked similar.

"Gather together some Men who are willing and chase down as many of the intruders as you can. I want the city thoroughly swept, every alley on every level, until there is nothing evil left here," commanded Aragorn to the Dwarf. "Faramir, show me the Seventh Level please."

The Steward of Gondor looked dead on his feet and it wasn't surprising. With so much at stake for his own people, he had fought harder than any other on the battlefield and now that they had taken the city back for the people of Gondor he was well and truly exhausted. Nevertheless, he nodded eagerly at Aragorn's invitation for he had never seen the upper levels of the city before and knew only about as much as his father and the Council had deigned to tell him.

"Gimli, wait, I'll go with you."

The Dwarf turned back when he heard Legolas' call. A look of disbelief passed unconcealed over his face and his eyes moved all over the Elf's body, scrutinising what he saw before him. "You should stay with your king; maybe seek out a healer, get that wound seen to."

"It is only a scratch. There is much yet to do. I am better helping Aragorn in this way." Not waiting for permission for he knew he didn't need it from the Dwarf, Legolas overtook him in three easy strides, motioning to a few men as he passed, heedless of whether or not they were willing to partake of this new task or not and led the way down the slope to the lower levels where they would begin to systematically cleanse Minas Tirith of the Shadow that had dwelt for so long inside.

**OIOI**

"NO!"

The almighty cry was echoed by great tremors all throughout the dark lands of Mordor as if the very earth was rattled by the fury thrust out by its lord and master. Startled creatures under the Dark Lord's rule turned instinctively to look towards the towering building of Barad-dur which glowed with the deep red light from the Mountain of Doom.

"No! No! NO!"

Sauron paced back and forth forcefully, walking off his anger. So far it had not been effective and he had been reduced to screaming obscenities at his terrified messenger.

"How?!" he screamed loudly. "How did this happen?"

"I…" The messenger was an Orc who unfortunately knew nothing more than what he had been told by the Orc scouts who had reported to him just an hour before. As soon as he had received the word from the scout that Minas Tirith was under attack, he had wished that he had never been assigned the task of personal messenger to Barad-dur and had seriously considered walking into the den of the Uruk-hai and proclaiming them to all be worthless, stinking cowards and suffer whatever punishment they could come up with, for he was certain that anything would be better than what Sauron would do in his anger at the boldness of Men and failure of his own.

Sauron loosed another foul-mouthed tirade and the messenger sank back into the shadow of the room, satisfied to let his Lord shout out his anger rather than focus it on hurting him instead.

"Where are they?!"

Confused, the messenger stepped forward again anxiously, body bowed low in subservience as though such a showing might spare his life. "Who, Master?"

"My 'great, undefeatable weapons'," snapped the Dark Lord snidely, glowering from beneath his hood.

"The Nine? I know not, sir."

"Then find out!" bellowed the tall, lithe figure so loudly that the ancient walls shook with power. He unleashed another impossibly loud shout of sheer fury and paced some more, uncaring of whether he was gradually wearing out the borrowed – or stolen – magic that still pulsed through his veins. What good was power if he remained trapped within this realm whilst that man continued to do everything within his power to undermine and infuriate him?

All had been for nothing. It had been nearly two months since he had sent forth the disgraced Mouth of Mordor to quell the rebellion within Gondor and it had so far proven unsuccessful. How could that be? What more incentive did the wretched creature require? And he had sworn to take the armies of Mordor and Isengard with him and yet, although Isengard had emptied, scouts and spies had been unable to trace them across the lands. Renewed anger surged within his pounding chest when he thought of this potential betrayal. Surely none would be so fool-hardy. And yet, he had been failed once by that useless creature and through his own foolishness he had granted a second chance but only because his Voice had promised faithfully that he would be successful in taking out the greatest threat to his empire.

Perhaps it was he who was the real fool. He was too trusting of those servants around him when he knew in his heart that the only person he could really trust was himself.

The magic he had stolen from the White Wizard and borrowed in part from the Witchking himself had given him strength he had not known in many hundreds of years and yet it was still not enough. He remained trapped by his own fear of his mortality. The thought that he might again perish at the hands of the armies of Light terrified him. Only one thing could save him and it remained so firmly, infuriatingly beyond his reach.

And yet… He was stronger now than he had been when he'd been cut down at the so-named War of the Last Alliance. And the armies that stood against his rule were lesser than the combined might of those allied Men and Elves. A boy led them, an unseasoned child led by vain, incompetent fools whose lands had fallen so easily when the Shadow had ripped through them.

Sauron knew better than to underestimate them anymore. That prideful outlook had cost him dearly Helm's Deep – for a time anyway. But they were still lesser to his own armies.

With a single word, Sauron summoned back his nervous messenger, who bowed deeply as if concerned that his lord had changed his mind and decided to vicariously exact revenge on the Men of Gondor through him.

"Summon back to me the Nine. And prepare the army. We ride to war."

"W-We?" stuttered the Orc messenger, startled by the strange order. "Surely you do not intend to leave Mordor, Master?"

"Indeed," Sauron smiled grimly behind his hood. "I do."

"But…" It was no secret even amongst the lesser ranks of Orcs in the Dark Lands that their master was no longer impossibly strong and was in fact extremely vulnerable. Things had changed with the demise of the White Wizard and yet still it did not seem like a decision his Lord would normally take. Sauron leaving Mordor was just about the last thing anybody within the Black Lands could have anticipated. And perhaps that was the beauty of it as a strategy.

"Go."

"Yes, Master."

He didn't care for the opinion of useless servants. So close he had come the last time he had walked into battle on Dagorlad. Had it not been for those damned Men and their terrible sword now wielded by the newly proclaimed King of Men, then he would have won Middle Earth long before now. Not again would he fail.

Aragorn was not Isildur. Taking heart in that assertion, Sauron moved with more measured steps to the doorway. Within days he was determined to walk outside of the Black Lands that had sheltered him for so long, shielded by his best bodyguards and his precious Nine. None of his creations would fail him as he walked at their side, if only out of fear. And Aragorn would never expect such a course of action.

**To Be Continued…**


	68. The Battle Of Pelennor Fields Part 3

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks so much for all your lovely reviews. I hope you enjoy this chapter, it's a little longer than normal. Anyway, let me know what you think…**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 68 **

**The Battle Of Pelennor Fields Part III**

**Pelennor**

Aragorn stood on the Seventh Level of Minas Tirith looking out over the mist-shrouded plain of Pelennor. The city was back in the hands of the Gondorians and a strange hush had blanketed it in the wake of the battle. Mist had crept up once again with the coming of the new dawn, shrouding the vast fields between the capital city and Osgiliath. Below, Aragorn knew from reports that healers and warriors alike were scouring the battlefield for those who lived in the hope that they might not all be beyond aid.

It wasn't clear yet how many Men had been lost to the Battle of Pelennor Fields as the Men were already referring to it. Reports had so far been vague and most probably inexact. But still the weight of the dead rested heavily on Aragorn's heart. Minas Tirith had come at a terrible price. From the heights of the city, it was impossible to hear much from the Fields below but occasionally a distant wail sounded, catching on the light breeze and wafting up to taunt him. Each time he caught sound of this unfettered agony, his heart skipped a beat.

He was tired but he could find no rest. Dawn of the third day since the start of the attack had come quickly but few men had spent the time resting. They had insisted on helping with the healing process of their comrades, many being curtailed into becoming battlefield assistants to the horribly stretched healers.

The bulk of the physicians had remained in Osgiliath during the attack regardless of whether or not they could handle a sword. They were a valuable commodity, too valuable to waste on fighting. Faramir had been insistent on that and, although it had limited their numbers somewhat, it had proven a good decision as they were needed now in the wake of the fighting more than they would have been in the battle. They hurried around their appointed rooms on the Lower Level treating whoever they could with their scant resourced even as more men and women streamed in seeking help and relief.

Already scouts had been sent back to Osgiliath where those who could not fight were being brought on horseback to the city so that the people of Gondor were not separated by the Pelennor. They would bring with them much-needed food and supplies to replenish the soldiers' flagging strength. Then perhaps things would calm down somewhat.

Aragorn knew that he should be down there helping the harried healers, or perhaps out clearing bodies down on the Pelennor but he could not seem to bring himself to move from his spot of observation.

"You did well."

Aragorn startled at the sound of his guardian's soft voice next to him and he turned to look at the Elf. Legolas stood tall and strong in spite of his obvious weariness, covered in blood, both black and red Aragorn noted with a start. Blue eyes, lined with worry and shadowed by exhaustion, squinted out into the greyness of the plains beyond although even with his superior Elven eyesight he couldn't have seen anything more than Aragorn.

"Thank you. Are you…?"

Anticipating what was going to be said, Legolas raised his hand to the wound that had stained his shirt red and smiled grimly. "It is already healing," he lied easily, dismissing the man's concerns.

Nodding in acceptance even though he wasn't entirely convinced, Aragorn leaned forwards so that his arms rested on the white wall that surrounded the pinnacle of Minas Tirith and sighed heavily. "Have you heard yet?"

"Heard what?"

"How many dead?"

"Oh. No, I haven't. I'm sure they are working on numbers for you."

The flippant attitude made a rush of anger go through Aragorn's aching heart and he had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping something irritably unpleasant at the Elf.

"Shouldn't you be down there helping them?"

For a moment, Legolas watched at his ward, who had once again resumed staring down at the mist-covered Pelennor, purposefully avoiding his gaze it seemed. He was surprised by the blunt question. It was the kind of thing he would have expected from Faramir, not his ward.

"If that is what you would like me to do," Legolas nevertheless answered softly, respectfully, never feeling more like he was speaking with the king than in that moment.

Aragorn made no attempt to answer, merely set his jaw. When, however, Legolas shot him one last curious look and went to walk away to do as was asked of him, the man asked softly of him, "Was it worth it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Was Minas Tirith worth all those Men?" A hint of bitterness entered Aragorn's tone even though he hadn't meant it to. It wasn't Legolas' fault that the deaths of so many rested on his mind and yet he felt the impulsive need to take it out on someone and Legolas was the closest and most convenient outlet.

Legolas moved slowly back towards the wall, uncertain whether he was really welcome but wanting to understand what Aragorn was trying to tell him all the same. "Do you think it was?"

Aragorn shrugged non-committedly, trying his best to look nonchalant despite feeling immensely invested in his answer. "A lump of white rock and a dusty empty field. It doesn't feel worth it yet."

Sighing, the Elf leaned with his back to the wall so that he was partially facing the man. "It was never about simply regaining the stronghold, Aragorn. Minas Tirith is symbolic."

"Of what?"

"Freedom. Power."

With a scoff, Aragorn dismissed, "Freedom and power! Is that all it comes down to in the end?"

"Aragorn, no one was forced into battle. The lives lost here today are the fault of the Shadow, not you or any other commander in our armies. They died knowing what was at stake, they knew the value of this city and they were prepared to sacrifice much for it. By lessening your victory here you are dishonouring their memories and for that no warrior would thank you."

"Why is it so easy for you?!" Aragorn snapped suddenly, turning slightly to face Legolas directly. "How can you look down there and see victory?"

"Down there I see waste. Terrible, heart-wrenching waste. But here, standing with the King of Gondor, by the Banner of the King, I see pride and valour. That is not to be scoffed at Aragorn. And never forget that despite the toll taken on your people this was a victory."

"Well, I hate it!" spat Aragorn, striding away from both the wall overlooking the fields and his guardian too.

"Aragorn! Wait!" Legolas trotted after his young ward. "Do not do this to yourself again. You knew the price you would have to pay for this. Faramir knew it too, as did every one of the commanders and warriors you consulted. Do you blame them too for this? Minas Tirith stands under the watch of Men once more. You should be proud of yourself. You have acted honourably." He caught up easily just as the path widened as they left the spur of jutting out rock and neared the king's quarters and throne room.

"Proud?!"

"Yes, Aragorn, proud."

"How can I be so now?"

"Because you are one step closer to ultimate victory over the Shadow."

"I don't care about victory!" Aragorn yelled, spinning to face his guardian, eyes flashing with unbridled anger.

Legolas came to an abrupt halt before his angry ward, somewhat taken aback by the fury behind the rugged, tired-looking face. Softly, Legolas reasoned, "I know you don't mean that and you should not let anyone else hear you speak such a thing."

Although Aragorn opened his mouth to speak, the words did not come and his grey eyes bored into those of unrepentant eyes of his guardian. Suddenly looking drained rather than annoyed, Aragorn's shoulders sagged and he dragged a hand over his eyes. No matter what his attitude, Legolas never failed to make him feel like a petulant child throwing a tantrum and this he knew was not the way a king was supposed to behave.

"I am sorry," he said softly from behind the shield of his hand, trembling slightly from the slight burst of adrenaline. "You are right; I did not mean what I said."

A soft hand came to rest upon Aragorn's shoulder, somehow immediately relieving some of the strain the young man felt, and Legolas offered a smile of reassurance even though it couldn't be seen. "You are tired. Once you have had some sleep then you will be able to look at things more clearly."

"I am too wound up to sleep."

Normally, Legolas would have protested but today it didn't seem appropriate, especially seeing as he felt much the same way. "Then come, show me the throne room. I have never seen Minas Tirith before and know little of it."

Finally removing his hand from his eyes, Aragorn smiled up at his guardian. "Well, Faramir gave me a tour earlier and delighted in telling me of the splendour of Gondorian architecture. Although, I think it was more of a hint that I myself am not from Gondor than pride in the accomplishments of his ancestors."

"You are their king and Minas Tirith is yours," Legolas asserted firmly, now laying his arm over the span of his ward's shoulders.

"Right."

"Aragorn!"

They were just walking towards the spot where the White Tree of Gondor, symbol of peace and strength of Men, stood wilting in the grey haze, when they saw Faramir hurrying towards them, his face grim.

Aragorn could not suppress a groan. "What now?" he muttered under his breath just before Faramir drew too close to them.

"Aragorn! The scouts have reported something," Faramir informed them breathlessly, coming to a juddering halt before them.

"What?"

"I know not. They said they spotted a cloud of dust away to the east heading towards Gondor through the mountain passes with all haste."

"Dust? That's all?"

"They reported that the ground shook, as if something dreadful comes our way."

"And how could they possibly know that?" asked Legolas flatly, holding little faith in the Human reports. Overreaction after a battle such as this was to be expected. They were all twitchy, expecting retaliation from some quarter. Still, there was no need to overreact at every movement.

"Because they know their jobs," replied Faramir tersely, as if he had not the time to spar with Legolas.

"Well, just keep me updated," Aragorn said, trying his best not to sound too flippant even though he agreed with Legolas entirely on this topic; there was no need to panic at a dust cloud and the sound of pounding. Doubtless, being so close to Mordor, it was to be expected anyway.

Faramir looked thoroughly aggrieved at being so flippantly dismissed but he could think of nothing else to say as Aragorn started to walk away with Legolas at his side.

Before they could get too far though, the increased sound of shouting came from below on the Fields. Legolas stopped abruptly, his sensitive ears picking up the sound immediately, and after a couple of seconds Aragorn caught on and halted as well. It was clear now. People were screaming.

"What is that?" Aragorn asked of his guardian, his voice quavering slightly.

Legolas turned back to face the spur that jutted out over Pelennor, his eyes narrowing as if he could determine what was happening simply by staring out at the clouded grey skies. Faramir too had frozen, the screams reaching his ears and making his body freeze. Something terrible was coming, he knew even then. When Legolas shoved past him, hastening towards the wall where he could look out directly over the Plains, the man shook his head as if to clear it of his terror and followed close behind Aragorn.

It was the last thing any of them could have anticipated seeing. So busy had they been with the battle for Minas Tirith and the clean up afterwards that almost all of their attention had been diverted away from the forgotten and almost empty city of Osgiliath. Even now, scouts and lookouts assigned to ensure the security of the city only concentrated on the east, in the direction of Mordor, for it was certain that if any threat would be coming their way then it would come from the Black Lands.

But they had not given any thought to the Anduin. The Great River flowed right through Osgiliath. The Gondorians had always guarded the river fiercely whilst they had occupied the ancient capital, knowing how easy it would be to mount an attack on the city from the water. And yet, it had now been overlooked. The river had not even been pinpointed as a major weak point in the battle. A great oversight in the planning, they realised now. It stood as an open gateway, practically inviting in the hordes of Mordor.

The cries were coming from the fields below for the people had spotted the enormous army marching across the plains towards them. Many of the Men were already fleeing, hastening towards Minas Tirith as fast as they could, where they would be safe from the advancing forces – or at least they hoped they would be.

Even through the mist, from the heights of the Citadel, Aragorn could see them. Hundreds of thousands of Orcs and Uruk-hai pouring from Osgiliath, falling into thick, ordered ranks and heading across the plain at an alarming speed, just as the Men had done two dawns ago. The noise was incredible; it almost made the stone beneath their feet tremble. There would be no stopping such a massive force, that much was immediately obvious to Aragorn. The host of Shadow vastly outnumbered the standing Men.

"My Lord!" a messenger shouted, hurrying over to Faramir. "My Lord, you must come!"

"What is it now?" Faramir had to force himself to tear his gaze away from the advancing army of Orcs come from Osgiliath.

"Orcs, my Lord. They're coming from the mountains!" The man pointed away in the opposite direction of Osgiliath, although nothing could be seen from Faramir's current vantage point.

"What?!"

"They want Minas Tirith!" exclaimed Aragorn but he also felt Legolas' gaze burning into him and he could almost feel what the Elf was thinking to himself. Not just for Minas Tirith were these creatures coming to Gondor. They wanted the ringleader of this venture. Orcs coming from Mordor were coming by order of the Dark Lord himself and Sauron wanted Aragorn dead more than anything, more even than he would want to retain Minas Tirith for himself. Almost instinctively, Aragorn's hand plunged into his jacket pocket to where the band of gold rested heavily, expectantly, nestled in the thickly woven fabric. It thrummed with power, as if it could sense that it's true master and creator was close at hand for the first time in centuries.

"My Lord, what should we do?" demanded the harassed messenger, his tone edging towards panic as he waited for Faramir's orders, fighting physically to keep himself still and wait for Faramir's command. "My Lord?"

Faramir looked to Aragorn, who was staring out blankly over the Pelennor Fields; looking but not really seeing. "Aragorn, did you hear? More Orcs are coming from Mordor. We have to do something."

"What?" Legolas asked in his ward's place.

"I don't know!" the man shouted angrily, although it was through panic more than anything. "I don't know!"

"A decision, Faramir," prompted the Elf as calmly as he could manage. Faramir was panicking enough for the both of them; he didn't need to add to it. Right now they needed calmness if they were going to get through this, no matter how hard such a thing might be in the face of such danger.

Again, Faramir glanced in Aragorn's direction, this time a hint of accusation in his eyes, as if he blamed the King for all this and he had been just an innocent soldier caught in the crossfire. "We cannot run. There is nowhere to go. We'll have to stand and fight."

The messenger, who had stood waiting somewhat impatiently for a decision from at least one of the gathered commanders, now spoke up in disbelief, "Fight all that?"

"What else can we do but fight?" snapped the Steward in a fluster. "Go summon the guards. We'll make base in the city and pray that we can keep them out. Make sure everyone is inside and then barricade the First Gate." He did not sound confident. Minas Tirith, for all its grandeur and strength was by no means perfect. Once caught inside there was no way out. Perhaps if the Orcs had come from just one direction they could have made a run for safety, even if it meant heading east into the mountains. But the armies cut off escape from both the mountains and Osgiliath. They were trapped.

"What's going on?" Eomer demanded as he approached with long strides. Obviously he had heard the clamour below but was apparently still ignorant of its source. On his heels were Jecha and Janor, also come to see what was happening. "Aragorn?"

Faramir answered the question simply by pointing out at the plains. When Eomer saw the advancing army, his face paled visibly, his confident air lost completely.

"We have to run."

Under any other circumstances, Legolas would have mocked the blunt display of fear but he could not mock Eomer for stating the same thing he felt in his heart.

"We've been through this. There can be no retreat. Orcs come at us also from the mountains," Faramir told him, pacing a couple of feet then whirling around and repeating the soothing gesture as though it might clear his mind sufficiently to come up with a plan to get them all out of this alive.

"How could he have known?"

"What?"

"Him? How could he have known we were taking Minas Tirith today?"

Faramir shrugged non-committedly as if he hadn't the time to answer the question and believed its asking to be a waste of time. "Who cares? Spies probably."

"Spies?" Eomer's eyes flicked instinctively over to Legolas, although he startled when they actually met the Elf's cold stare of the prince's eyes. Shifting his gaze quickly away, Eomer demanded of them, "What spies?"

"Crebain, most likely. Birds flying over the city would have seen our preparation for the attack. Or maybe he didn't know. Maybe they were ordered to converge on Osgiliath and will soon see that we have changed our base of operations. Either way, we are trapped here now."

"Oh gods!" Eomer exclaimed, his suspicion of Legolas momentarily forgotten. "I'll summon the Rohirrim back to arms. We have to defend the city."

"No."

As one, everyone turned to the sound of Aragorn's voice finally breaking through the not so subtle air of panic that had all but consumed them. The man was watching them now instead of the ever advancing army over Pelennor and he looked worryingly calm. The look seemed alien and inappropriate given what they were soon to face. Legolas' gaze automatically went to the man's jacket where he knew rested the great weapon of Mordor but Aragorn's hand rested limply at his side rather than clutching at the Ring. That at least was somewhat of a reassurance.

"What do you mean no?" demanded Eomer irritably, clearly itching to get back to his Rohirrim and prepare for the upcoming battle.

"We cannot hide inside the city."

"Then what do you propose?" Legolas asked with his customary calmness even though he didn't know what exactly Aragorn was getting at.

"Standing and fighting them upon the Pelennor."

Stunned silence followed this suggestion. All but Legolas stared with open disbelief and some small amount of contempt at the king. Everyone knew that clashing with these two armies of Mordor would end in complete annihilation of the Human race encamped in Minas Tirith. There was no way they could possibly stand up against such might and numbers. Hundreds of thousands could be coming from Mordor and many more thousands coming even now across the plains from the Anduin. Those kinds of numbers could not be quelled by the few hundred Men that remained battle-worthy. Anyone with any sense could see that to attempt an attack now would be suicide. They stood no chance within Minas Tirith either but if they left the city then it would no longer be in control of the Gondorians and all that had already been wasted would be for nothing. That was an unbearable thought.

"Fighting them on the plain?" Faramir broke the thick silence, a bitter edge to his voice. "That's your plan?"

"Yes. We meet them in battle."

"That is madness," put in Eomer, with even more passion than his Gondorian counterpart. "We'd all be slaughtered."

"So will we be if we remain in the city," Aragorn noted flatly and a ripple of unease ran through the gathered commanders as this truth sank in. "What difference would it make?"

"We'd retain Minas Tirith under the flag of Gondor."

"For what? For it to be stripped of Gondorian control when we're all killed?"

"Better that than to simply surrender it."

"I am not proposing surrendering the city."

"You might as well be. What you suggest is suicide."

"No matter what we do now we will wind up in the same predicament. We will have to fight either way; why not do it out on Pelennor where we have space to move? If we remain within the city it'll be easier for them to pick us off one by one. We might just stand a chance if we meet them out in the open," Jecha reasoned, naturally backing his king.

"We stand no chance against that," Faramir shouted, gesturing wildly towards the mass of armoured bodies marching steadily towards them.

"I would rather go out fighting than hiding." Aragorn's statement stung for Faramir knew that it was a slight against the actions of his father, cowering for years in the protective bubble of Osgiliath. And yet, he felt a certain pride at the notion of doing what Denethor would have feared to do.

"Aragorn, we need a decision soon. They are gaining much ground," prompted Legolas quietly. He had remained quiet throughout the discussion, letting the commanders decide the best course of action. He knew he could have influenced Aragorn's decisions had he wanted to and yet he felt that he had to let the man figure out his own course. He would follow wherever Aragorn led the armies of Men. Long ago had he sworn to that and he would not shirk his responsibility to the king now. Death did not paralyse him with fear as it seemed to currently be doing with Eomer and Faramir although he could well understand the feeling.

"We will go out to meet them head on. Barricade the doors of the city once we are outside them. It might offer some protection to those people within, those who cannot fight. Put a sword in the hand of anyone who can hold one. No one is to be spared. And plunder the Uruk supplies left here. Fit everyone with shields and bows and arrows, whatever you must to make them battle-ready," ordered Aragorn even as he started moving away towards the Gate.

"That'll take time," Eomer warned, following behind the king, struggling to keep up.

"Then hurry it up. Go. We go out together. As one. The people of Men united under a single banner for the first time."

"Your banner?" asked Faramir somewhat tersely as he too followed them towards the Seventh Gate.

Aragorn turned his head upwards, eyes seeking out the black, somewhat worse for wear following Gondor's occupation, flag emblazoned with the White Tree of Gondor above which sat seven stars and topped with the Crown of Elendil that flapped stubbornly in the wind, a sign that Gondor was once again back in the rightful hands of Men.

He turned then and clasped Faramir's shoulder as if they had been friends for decades. "Our banner," he asserted without hesitation, eyes burning with patriotism and pride he had never before felt. "The banner of Gondor."

Faramir's lips curled up into a smile at this for he heard that there was no lie in Aragorn's voice. He reached up his own hand and in return clasped Aragorn's shoulder.

"Gondor."

"For Gondor," interrupted Eomer, coming to join them.

"Gondor." Jecha smiled as he too stepped close to them.

They were then joined by Janor, who looked a little uncomfortable at being amongst the other commanders even though he was technically still the captain of the Rangers.

"Gondor," the Ranger nevertheless declared strongly.

It was a simple pledge of allegiance but it filled them all with renewed confidence that Minas Tirith would not fall again to the Shadow.

Legolas stifled a smile at this show of camaraderie and loyalty to the kingdom barely yet reformed. Perhaps all hope was not lost after all.

The quiet was shattered by the starting of the slow steady beat of thousands of heavy Orc feet advancing on the city of Men. The gathered men parted with an encouraging nod to one another, running off down the levels of Minas Tirith, shouting out orders at any man they passed. If they were to have any hope of winning they would need every fighter all together on the field. After shooting a lingering look of fear and pride in Legolas' direction, Aragorn ran after them, knowing that even though he had not been asked or given any command, his guardian would follow behind him.

For the next minutes panic ensued. Soldiers rushed about everywhere leaden down with weaponry and shields; innocents hurried about, bringing whatever they could into the city for protection; children cried and there were a few arguments as women and their sons and daughters fought about the level of duty they owed Gondor and whether or not they would be allowed to go into battle. No parent wished to see their child placed in harm's way but such were the necessities of war. Passing, Legolas shoved into the hands of anyone who expressed a wish to do battle no matter what their age, a weapon and ordered them to the Lower level, heedless of the protests and curses protective parents threw at him. Only the young children, eager though they may have been to join their brethren, were spared. Healers hurried about, helping the injured up the sloping pathways to the upper levels where it was deemed they would be somewhat safer should the city be breached and also attempting to restrain those who wished to go back into battle but were obviously too injured to be of any use to anyone. The injured were mostly ignored by the hurrying soldiers. Although they required numbers, men who could not stand would only be a waste of resources. These men were given orders to protect those within the city should the gates be breached and the city occupied by the Shadow. This duty seemed to appease them somewhat and they settled for shouting out orders to the uninitiated and panicking. It added somewhat to the chaos but that was to be expected.

As Aragorn emerged from the Great Gate out onto the walkway that lead out onto Pelennor, he clamped his teeth together to keep himself from gasping out loud at the sight that greeted him. The Orc army had advanced to within a couple of hundred feet of the city and then halted, their feet continuing to pound upon the ground in a kind of mockery of their previous marching, making the very ground Aragorn stood upon tremble even through the stone of the walkway. They were intimidating. And it was working. Upon emerging from the city, some men cowered backwards, horrified by the sight of the great army. That another force was coming at them from the left, slowly sweeping along the edge of the mountain into which Minas Tirith was constructed, only served to terrify them further. None were allowed to retreat though. They were soldiers of Gondor now. They could not run in terror from the Enemy.

Moving to the front of the ranks, Legolas found Aragorn staring hard at the gathered forces opposing them. Dark cries of anger and confidence came from the Orcs and they stamped their feet and weapons upon the ground, every so often advancing a step or two, not enough to make any real progress but enough to chill the Human army awaiting them.

"Aragorn, call for the Gate to be barred," Jecha said without preamble as he reached the young man.

For a moment, Aragorn seemed not to register the advice, so enthralled was he in watching the vast army assembled on the fields. It had all looked so promising just that morning when victory had sounded for the Men. Now, as evening was beginning to settle in, everything had turned for the worse and Aragorn's heart was more chilled than ever at the prospect of what they faced.

"Bar the Gate!" he called after a minute, raising Anduril in the air in the prearranged signal.

"Aragorn, move them forwards." This time it was Faramir who gave the order. He seemed ill at ease like everyone else and yet in his hard grey eyes there was a steely determination shining. Perhaps he was regretting his decision to side with the ideal of Aragorn being placed on the throne of Gondor but now he was certain that he would keep the city of Minas Tirith no matter what the cost.

Swallowing back the bitter taste of fear that had pooled in his mouth, Aragorn took one reluctant step forward, Anduril still raised high and proud for all to see. The next step was filled with false confidence – his men needed to see him certain of the outcome, not moving forward nervously.

The army moved as one, keeping tight together. Spreading out would do little good against such a vast force; the result would always be the same. Aragorn stood at the front with the commanders at his side. The Men were mingled. There were no longer factions amongst them. Ranger stood side by side with Rohirrim and Gondorian. Dwarf stood next to Man and Legolas stood in his usual place at Aragorn's side. Behind the king, the first rank of soldiers all carried, hastily affixed to tall poles salvaged from the Uruk supplies, the black flag of Gondor, the banners of the king. They fluttered in the breeze and the Men all looked to them as though they would successfully shield them from danger and give them courage to face that danger. They meant much to the people of the city for it was this they fought for. For the stars – freedom; for the crown – the king; and for the White Tree – Gondor. It gave them strength and courage and supported their belief that Freedom was worth fighting and even dying for. This was the enemy they now looked upon, the terrible thing that had taken their lands and their families, that had killed their friends and ruined their homes. They hated these creatures. A deep burning hatred and it fuelled their strength. For Faramir the Gondorians stood proud, for they loved and trusted their Steward more than anyone. Jecha's people did not care for their leader's fanaticism over the King Aragorn as much but they loved the prospect of walking across the lands freely and without fear of attack from the Shadow. The two Dwarves stood shorter than any on the battlefield and yet they were skilled fighters and had shoved their way forward to the very front ranks, eager to see action before any other. For their lost people under the mountain they would cut down every Orc they met and show no mercy as they did so. The Rangers fought in memory of their fallen leader. Kinnale's death still rested heavily on their hearts even after all this time. Ciaran felt emotion build in his chest when he thought of what the Shadow had done to his father. He stood behind Legolas, wanting to stay close to the Elf, for they had become close, he thought, on the road to Gondor and although Legolas did not consider him a ward as he did Aragorn, Ciaran thought that his father would approve of his protection.

Darkness was beginning to descend over the lands and only the dual orange glows coming from the torches of Minas Tirith behind them and from the Orcs in front of them lit the battlefield. It was enough though. Beneath their feet remained the detritus of the earlier fight, both Orc and Man. Some were filled with revulsion at the thought of walking amongst the dead whilst others were propelled into courage at the thought of revenge for their deaths.

Sauron's forces were not coordinated as such, for the Orcs come from Osgiliath were led forward before those coming from the mountains had rounded the city limits. Steady and with terrible slowness, they marched forward, still making an unearthly racket with any manner of weapon.

As they drew closer, raising their weapons for battle and shouting incoherent obscenities at the Human army, Aragorn could make out the creature that stood at their head. It rode a black horse, whose eyes glowed a terrible mystical red. At his side, he felt Legolas recoil ever so slightly. The Elf knew who this was. The Mouth of Sauron was leading the force from the Anduin. A chill rippled through Legolas but he kept his fear to himself, schooling his features into stoic determination; should anyone look upon him they would see hard resolve rather than the thrill of fear he felt. He was determined though; he would not be bested by this creature that had once fooled him. He thought of Eowyn, somewhere far back in the ranks where her brother had ordered her to remain after she had insisted on going out with the army to meet the oncoming Shadow, wondered what she would make of seeing the Mouth of Sauron again after their brawl within the streets of Osgiliath. Then he thought of the terrible creature and what it would think of seeing her again. That brought a smile to his lips. He hoped it would be terrified at the visage of the Shieldmaiden of Rohan!

The Human army held their ground as the creatures approached. They had moved far away from the walls of Minas Tirith so as not to get trapped against the ancient stone. Patience was a hard thing to maintain while waiting for battle though. The men were twitchy. Now that they were here, they wanted to plunge in, as if by doing so the whole thing would be over faster. But Aragorn held them firm, watching with narrowed grey eyes the advance towards them.

When he could clearly see the yellow eyes and twisted features of the first rank of Uruk-hai through the natural gloom, Aragorn raised Anduril high in the air again and shouted the command as loud as he could, "Now!"

Rather than the charge that the Uruk-hai might have expected, from behind the Human army came a sudden bright flare of yellow and orange fire as one of those still within the city dropped a flaming torch from the edge of the Second Level down to the Great Gate, instantly igniting the oil and tar that had earlier been dropped and ignited by the Orcs within the city. The whole thing went up again instantly, ringing nearly the entire front of the city and effectively barring the gates from intrusion. If they were going to lose the battle, the Men were not going to so easily surrender the city.

The fire had a good effect. The Mouth of Sauron halted his horse with a sharp tug on the reins, struggling only slightly to keep his seat as the war horse reared up on its hind legs at the blast of heat. He had not expected that. The army behind him ground to a halt, silent now as it waited for orders.

A wicked grin split the Voice's lips and his eyes sought out the King standing tall at the front of the ranks of Men, the sword his master hated so defiantly held up before his people like a trophy. That was the prize, that boy. If he took the king out of the game then his master would indeed be pleased. He noted that the young man who had declared himself a king was wearing a slight smirk, well pleased with himself at having used the Shadows' own defences against them.

"Let us begin now, Aragorn," the Mouth of Sauron called in perfect Westron and even though they were still some distance apart, Aragorn and every other in the ranks of the Light heard what was said with perfect clarity.

In turn, Aragorn muttered, "Come and get me!"

The Mouth of Sauron turned his horse in a full circle, as if assessing the readiness of his forces then charged forwards without warning.

"Charge!" yelled Aragorn, lurching forward.

A second behind him was Legolas and the others.

The two armies clashed with stunning force. The poles holding the flags of Gondor were lowered and used instead as deadly spears. The Men took a kind of sick satisfaction in seeing the flags stained with the blood of the Shadow and, dropping the now useless weapons hurried into the fray now armed with their swords instead with the intention of shedding yet more blood.

The Mouth of Sauron stayed back behind his lines of guards, unwilling to do anything but watch over what was happening in the battle before him. It was not seemly for the lieutenant of Mordor to actually engage in battle. Surely his master would never expect such. His head turned to the mountains just as the second force approached at a steady march, seemingly not fazed by the fact that the battle had already begun.

Whilst he had been in Isengard to meet up with the Uruk-hai left behind by Saruman, his master had obviously mustered another force from Mordor to join them. Sauron was taking no chances. That much was clear simply by the fact that this second force was led by the Nazgul themselves. Although he could not see them yet, the lieutenant could feel them. Their presence was like a pressure in the air, pressing down on him; the pure Dark magic of the Witchking approached. The Men attacking the Orc armies clearly felt it too for there was a ripple of fear.

Aragorn swung his head around to the approach of the second mass of Orcs. A brief wave of panic surged through him but he shoved it brutally aside and called out, "Look to the Mountains!"

Whilst many continued to battle the Uruk-hai branded with the White Hand, others turned to the Mordor Orcs. They bore no symbols of allegiance for none was needed; it was blatantly obvious to everyone where they came from and Sauron did not feel the need to prove his might in the same way as the ill-fated White Wizard had.

The numbers were staggering. Never had the Men seen so many creatures of the Shadow gathered in one place. Orcs, Goblins, Uruk-hai, even a few of the Wild Men from around Isengard had been gathered into the vast army. It was an impossible force, the Men of the Light realised. Some privately reasoned that staying inside the city walls and flying a white flag of surrender might have been a better proposition for them given what they faced. And yet they had followed their king blindly into battle without proper thought. They could not turn back now.

"What is that?!" screamed one man, pointing out towards Osgiliath. The earth trembled and shook beneath the feet of Men, as if giants were coming across the plain towards them. "Oh, save us!" he cried, turning away and trying to run away from what approached only to become impaled upon an Uruk spear.

Aragorn too looked towards Osgiliath at the shout of warning and stopped in his tracks in shock. Yet another force was marching towards them; a second wave from the River. This one did not consist of Orcs or Uruk-hai or any other creature created by the Shadow. These were Men, it seemed. Thousands of them. Some were easily recognisable for they bore the same scarlet tunics as Jecha himself wore: Easterlings. They all marched grouped together, moving fast and confidently out at the front of the force, all carrying curved swords and long spears, tips glinting in the light of the torches. They made for a truly terrifying sight. Other Men were less recognisable to Aragorn. Massive Humans, taller even than Legolas and resembling very much the Harad man under Jecha's command, marched both on the ground and rode in curious towers constructed of bamboo and rope atop impossibly massive beasts with long trunks and four long, terrible-looking tusks penetrating from their heads. They were all daubed in red and white war-paint and looked horribly vicious in themselves. Their gigantic heads moved from side to side, controlled it seemed by a single Haradhrim rider at the front.

At least twenty of these beasts walked in a straight line come from Osgiliath, although how they had gotten there by river Aragorn could not fathom. Yet more Men walked behind them, their origins not so clear as the Easterlings and Haradhrim. Maybe Sauron had scraped together every ally he could find regardless of race or tribe.

Whatever small hope the Men of Gondor might have possessed up until that point was crushed a moment later when a terrible, high-pitched screech sounded from above them. They immediately recognised it, for they had heard it all too recently in the skies above Osgiliath. The Nazgul had returned. What hope did they now have? Against such massive forces, victory was impossible.

Aragorn's heart leapt in his chest as he looked upwards and then back towards the ruined city. How much more would the Shadow throw at them this day?

He desperately tried to think his way out of this battle as he hacked away at the Enemy. Soon both other forces would descend fully on them and they would stand no chance at all. He thought of the Dead Men of Dunharrow who had sworn their allegiance to him and his heart stung with their betrayal even though on some level he had expected nothing less from them. Legolas had warned him of the traitors, had told him that they could not change who they were no matter what they promised, that they would ever be cowardly turncoats. In the first phase of taking Minas Tirith, the forces of Men had survived simply through good fortune and boldness that had taken the previous occupants by surprise, but they could not survive this. Nor could they retreat for the Great Gate was wreathed with fire behind them, impenetrable now by their own doing. Surrender was not an option either, for the armies of Shadow would not heed surrender. They would simply slaughter anything that stopped in the attack before the issue could ever be raised with the Uruk commanders.

It truly was hopeless. Aragorn felt a desperate pang of regret. His friends would die on this field and there was nothing he could do. Legolas had told him that all kings had to make sacrifices, that it was the curse of leadership. But, this? No, Aragorn did not want this. His crown and Minas Tirith was not worth all these lives.

The Nazgul swooped low on their fearsome dragon beasts, whose claws picked up the bodies of the unfortunate soldiers, not distinguishing between enemy and ally. Screams filled the field as the Orcs from Mordor washed over the battling Men from the opposite side. They were trapped and hopelessly outnumbered.

"Legolas!" Aragorn cried out in near desperation, searching for his guardian amidst the chaos. He could not find the Elf though. He could find none of the other commanders either. The horrible thought that maybe they had already fallen crossed his mind and panic welled up inside him at the thought that he was the only one left standing, that he was all alone. The urge to sit down and simply give up and pray for a quick and painless death almost overcame him. Only the sight of his men still battling doggedly to escape this horror kept him on his feet. Whilst they fought, he would not give in.

**OIOI**

Legolas was battling his way through the Uruk-hai proudly bearing the White Hand of Saruman. In spite of having a specific target in mind, he left none that he met alive. If he did, they would only kill his comrades and that would not do. Several times already, they had almost gotten the better of him. They were strong and well-armed and he was weak and tired from the previous battle. And yet, he remained on his feet the whole time, not taking a single blow. Arrows fell around him, although he didn't think they were specifically aimed at him. A couple of Goblins were firing indiscriminately into the crowd hoping to hit something worthwhile. It didn't matter if the target happened to be one of their own. There were plenty more to replace any casualties on the side of the Shadow.

Some time ago, a couple of Men had attached themselves to the Elf, looking to him for command in place of their own leaders from whom they had apparently become separated. Legolas mostly ignored them. He didn't have time to look after anybody else, not when the fighting was so fierce and there was so much to concentrate on. And yet they shadowed him relentlessly. A poor decision, he thought, considering he was more likely, with his reckless plan, than most to get killed before the battle was done.

"Elf!" one Orc screeched when it saw him, both excited and rabid at the smell of Elf blood. All creatures of the Shadow hated the Firstborn with a passion and this one already seemed to be thinking of all the delightfully horrid things it could do with one of the Elves. It attracted its fellows with a call in its own language. But Legolas had no time for such matters. As he passed, he slit the Orc's throat with one single, smooth swipe of his knife and then set about killing its companions who came running towards the sound of the cry. Excitement gone, they attacked with the intent to kill. No point in keeping a creature alive that they couldn't control. Not one of them even touched him though. He was too quick. With a destination in mind, Legolas was, for the moment at least, unstoppable.

He was upon the Mouth of Sauron before the creature even realised that anyone had broken away from the main battle to target him. He was not stood far away, wanting to see the outcome and yet also not wanting to engage in the fighting himself.

Legolas ran forward and thrust his dagger deep in the neck of the black horse the lieutenant rode. The animal reared in shock and pain, almost throwing its master off its back. It started to bolt but couldn't sort its legs out and ended up toppling over then crashing over onto its side in its death throes. The lieutenant of Mordor was thrown from its back, lucky not to be crushed beneath the writhing beast.

Before the creature even had a chance to regain his footing or reach for the sword which remained in its scabbard at his side, Legolas was running back towards him, his own weapons ready for the fight.

Spitting out a vile curse, the Mouth of Sauron leapt up awkwardly and looked around for his attacker. When he saw Legolas, he grinned a horrible, split grin, as if pleased that this had come to pass. The two did, after all, had unfinished business that needed tending to.

"You," he snarled.

"Me."

The Mouth of Sauron circled Legolas, very much aware that he was alone with this Elf. Not that it mattered. He was confident enough. It was just one Elf; one he had been so close to defeating once before.

"Foolish creature," the lieutenant chastised, as if speaking to a tearaway child. He looked about then. For effect. "No woman to defend you this time." It grinned at its own joke but Legolas was not to be bated. He simply circled, waiting for his moment. This was personal. This creature had gone after Aragorn, after his ward, with the definite idea to kill him and it was the closest Legolas could get to Sauron on the battlefield. If he could rid the world of this fearsome lieutenant then he would leave the battle happy even if it were in death. "What are you going to do to me, Prince? Kill me?"

"The Wraiths are occupied. No one to save you now," Legolas said in return, his eyes darting up to the skies where the Nazgul still circled, eying the battle below.

With its head cocked to one side, the lieutenant of Mordor asked, "What makes you think I need them?"

Legolas shrugged. "You needed them before, to whisk you away from danger. From a woman." He felt the creature bristle with anger and suppressed a smile of satisfaction. "But you and me. Who do you think would win?"

The lieutenant brought his sword down into a ready position and snapped, "Let us find out, Elf. My master will be so pleased to see your head mounted upon his wall alongside your Imladrian friend."

Insults, Legolas could take. He expected nothing less. The creature was baiting him, trying to get him to attack in anger and thus messily. Legolas was better than that though. He would not fall for that old trick – his Mirkwood instructors would have been utterly mortified with their student had he done so. Still, the thought of Erestor and Elrond dying so horribly in Imladris made his pulse quicken and anger burned through his veins with every beat of his heart. He truly loathed this creature. Hated it more than any other enemy on this battlefield right then.

Circling carefully, Legolas waited for the lieutenant to attack first, which he knew he would because a creature such as that thought itself indestructible by the sword of a mere Elf. The lieutenant lurched indelicately forward in an action that suggested to Legolas that he used his fighting skills very little. Indeed, Legolas easily deflected the blow. The edge of the Voice's sword slid against Legolas' own with a dreadful squeal and was pushed away.

Now Legolas made his move. He danced around the creature, simultaneously attacking with both knives. One blow was deflected by a swipe of the lieutenant's black sword, the other caught the creature on the side, cutting through the thick wad of robes and hitting metal armour beneath.

Startled, the Mouth of Sauron looked down in shock. Legolas merely smiled. Not so indestructible. Armour could be gotten around, he knew. And the creature was afraid now; whether it would admit it or not.

"Damn you," it shouted as if mortally offended that Legolas had dared touch him. It launched itself at him and a full-on battle of wits and swords ensued.

The creature was as strong as Legolas remembered him being in Osgiliath. Once or twice it tried to beat him down to the ground, knowing that on the ground the Elf would be less of a threat. But Legolas would not allow it. He kept his feet, even if it meant retreating a little every now and then. Better that than being brought down to such a vulnerable position. He got two good strikes in of his own. One hitting armour again on the Mouth of Sauron's left side. The other was by far more satisfying. Forced down, Legolas thrust his knife down with all his strength into the creature's right foot, piercing straight through the metal boot there. The lieutenant howled in pain and hopped away, curling in on itself a little as it fought against the agony.

Legolas showed no mercy. Whilst it was momentarily incapacitated, he rushed forward, taking a risk by tackling the creature to the ground, using all his strength and body weight to knock it down and keep it there. Sat astride the struggling creature, Legolas set about knocking the sword from its grip. It fought him hard, kicking with heavy boots at his legs. But he would not give up. Finally, he extricated the sword from its hand. It was then that it seemed to realise the precariousness of its situation.

It screamed loudly followed by another cry in the Black Speech that Legolas didn't understand – although he could guess. It was crying for help.

But no one came. They were all too involved in the battle. And the Wraiths didn't even attempt to descend to help their wounded colleague. Perhaps they didn't think it was worth it or maybe they didn't care. Either way, Legolas was relieved. He couldn't have fought off a Wraith too.

Legolas transferred both his knives into one hand and used his free hand to rip off the creature's helmet. He flinched back at what he saw. Black lines radiated from its pale forehead all across its bald scalp, pulsating with the blood of Evil it seemed. Sharp pointed teeth snapped uselessly at him and it cried out when its head was exposed. Dark eyes, small and menacing deeply set in a pale, wrinkled face. It looked almost human, Legolas thought, and perhaps once long ago it had been so. But now it was twisted beyond all recognition. A shade worse than the Nazgul.

"For Aragorn," Legolas said firmly as he lifted his knife and thrust it straight through the creature's black eye, the most exposed part of its body.

For a moment, the lieutenant of Mordor twitched beneath him but it was purely a twitch of death for no life remained in the wretched monster.

Legolas took a moment to recover himself. The battle had exhausted him somewhat. The creature was strong and he could feel the Dark magic fairly radiating off the being. A weaker version of the Wraiths, he remembered thinking upon first encountering it on the streets of Osgiliath.

There was little time to dwell on the victory. He raised himself up, sheathing one of his knives. The other he used to cut the creature's head smoothly from its neck, just as it had apparently had its Orc servants do to Erestor when they had finished torturing him. Vengeance of a sort. Legolas took little pleasure from it though. There was no time. The great creatures bearing the armies of Men were advancing and nearly upon them.

He picked up the severed head and the sword of the lieutenant.

"Mordor!" he shouted as loud as he could.

Men looked up at him; saw him holding the head of one of the commanders of the Orc army. Orcs also looked to him, fear shining in their eyes. Their master was dead at the hands of the Elf!

Whilst the Orcs were momentarily stunned and horrified, the Men were bolstered. If Legolas could kill the Orcs' master then surely they could kill the mere Orcs. With a singular cry of anger, they launched an attack. It was stronger and more confident than before. All was not lost.

**To Be Continued…**


	69. Among The Damned

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Here is the next chapter for you all. Apologies that it took a while longer than usual. Thank you for all the reviews. They fuel me. Thanks also to everyone who is following this story and everyone who has added it to their favourites. I hope you enjoy chapter 69!**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 69**

**Among The Damned**

Aragorn heard a sudden shout go up among the Human soldiers; not one of despair as all had been previously but rather one of great strength and rejoicing. He frowned, kicking back the Goblin that was trying to snap at his hands, having been divested of its weapon and hands by Anduril just a moment before. What could possibly be worthy of celebration when the odds were so seriously stacked against them? Still, he felt a palpable sense of determination build up in the air, refreshing the soldiers into fighting harder for their cause which moments ago was believed lost.

The sense of celebration soon dissipated though, for the Haradhrim and Easterlings come from the Anduin had finally joined in the battle. One small mercy was that their uncoordinated, gigantic steeds took out more Orcs than Men as they made their way towards the hub of the fighting. Suddenly, crude versions of arrows and spears were raining down upon them and yet more Humans fell around Aragorn with agonised screeches.

"Shields!" Aragorn yelled to all those around him still standing and immediately shields were raised above their heads to protect them from the arrows. "Archers, fire!"

The arrows come from the ground were almost comical in the face of what was being returned at them. The small darts slammed into the sides of the giant creatures bearing the towers holding the Men, seeming to have no impact at all. What then could bring such a beast down, Aragorn wondered. Nothing in their arsenal, that was for sure.

Still, there was no time to dwell on the hopelessness of the situation he had led them into. He vowed to himself once more that as long as he could stand he would kill every ally of the Shadow that he came across, even if it killed him in turn.

The men around him seemed to be of much the same opinion. They fought bravely, sometimes even recklessly in their pursuit of victory. Aragorn found himself proud of them. They still looked to him for guidance and he noticed that many stayed close so that he remained in sight, as if he was a beacon for their hope. It was an immense responsibility but not one he particularly wished to shirk. How he had progressed, he wondered to himself. Just a few years ago in his bedroom in Edoras, he had been terrified by the weight of what he carried, not just the lives of hundreds of Humans but the small gold band in his pocket too. Now, on the battlefield, when things looked so close to failure, it didn't all seem quite so terrifying. Legolas' advice of taking one small step at a time came back to him and it comforted him further still. That was what he would do now.

Suddenly, the Wraiths banked sharply in the sky, all converging above one point on the edge of the battlefield. Aragorn looked toward that direction but it was useless trying to see anything. He wondered though what could have gotten their attention. Perhaps, he thought, the same thing that had bolstered the spirits of the Men. He hoped so. They needed something to change the fortunes of this battle.

An ear-piercing shriek came from the Nazgul, leaving Man and Orc fighting the urge to cover their ears to block the unearthly sound. They were angry, fiercely angry. That cheered Aragorn significantly. But his good cheer dissipated when they decided to take their anger out on the Human army. They swooped low down, aiming for something specific on the ground it seemed but as they came down, one after the other, each came back empty-handed. Whatever had annoyed them so had also avoided them and it seemed to enrage them further.

Men scattered all around to avoid this new diving terror. They were well aware after the attack on Osgiliath that these were the most dangerous creatures they would meet on the battlefield and they brought with them a feeling of deep, awful magic that permeated the air, making it thick and heavy with doom.

"Aragorn! Help me!"

The young man spun around at the familiar call close behind him and very nearly fell over in shock at what he saw. Janor was stumbling towards him, sword gripped tight in his left hand whilst his right arm dangled uselessly at his side. Aragorn saw why a second later. The hand was completely missing, severed it seemed in the battle. The Ranger looked to be in complete shock, his face so pale that he looked as though he were already nearer a corpse, walking to find salvation from the king he had sacrificed so much for.

The moment Janor reached Aragorn he toppled helplessly into his arms, sword falling from his weaker left hand. Aragorn went down with him, unable to think clearly for what seemed like a long moment. Then finally, the reality of what had happened to his good friend kicked in and he looked up from the motionless Human to shout for help. None came, of course. Everyone was too involved in keeping their own limbs attached to heed any of the numerous cries of distress.

"Help me!" Aragorn cried louder above the din, slightly concerned that crouched on the ground like this could very well lead to being trampled to death. "Help!"

At last someone came. It was Ciaran, who it seemed had stuck with his Ranger companions. He skidded to a halt on his knees before Aragorn, eyes wide with shock. His commander was injured in such a horrific way.

"Take him to the walls of the city and find shelter there. Then return to help us in the battle," Aragorn instructed before mumbling to himself, "I cannot lose any more soldiers." When he looked up though, Ciaran's eyes had not moved from the bloodied stump, cut off just above the wrist, where Janor's hand had once been. "Ciaran! Now!" Aragorn snapped, jolting the young man from his thoughts. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes."

Aragorn transferred Janor to his younger friend carefully and thankfully the man stirred at the movement. "Rouse him and go."

Leaving them behind, Aragorn made himself move on. He could not dwell on this injury to one he considered a true friend. There was work to be done. And the tragedy just made him all the more determined to make the Shadow pay for their evil.

**OIOI**

He had anticipated this. Of course he had. The Mouth of Sauron was no meaningless minion whose death would be lost in the masses. He had great worth to the Shadow and to Sauron in particular. It was to be expected that his allies in the skies would take his murder personally and react with open hostility toward the one who had wielded the knife. Not that Legolas cared. That he had them angry, these ones who thought themselves above such mortal emotions, brought a thrill of delight to him.

The Nazgul dived in determination, one after the other, on their terrifying steeds, searching for the murderer in the melee. But he was too quick for their cumbersome beasts. He darted amongst fighting Orcs and Men, each time avoiding the swooping creatures by a little more. He dared, once confident enough that he could outrun them, to specifically aim for groups of the Enemy so that the sharp Fell Beasts' claws would rip through the Orcs and Uruk-hai rather than just grabbing empty air – or worse still, any unfortunate Man who might be in the way. It worked a couple of times. Legolas heard the shrieks of pain and the heavy thudding of Orc bodies around him as they were tossed carelessly to the ground. He tried for one of the giant beasts carrying the Haradhrim, thinking how wonderful it would be if the Nazgul took out their own massive allies, but that tactic didn't work. They were too big a target. The Beasts simply banked sharply before they ran into the creatures. Still, it spooked the huge steeds, sending them off course and, Legolas hoped, perhaps buying the Men on the ground a little time.

It wasn't long before the Nazgul gave up on their pursuit. It was a useless exercise from the air, they understood. And they were not yet bold enough to land simply to kill one single Elf.

Legolas almost grinned at this retreat. It felt like a victory that he had outwitted the Wraiths. There was little time for such celebration though. The Men were outmatched and outnumbered, that much was obvious. He found a large grouping of Uruk-hai fighting Men and threw himself into the skirmish instead.

The aching that had grown in his arms and legs from the exhaustion of battle had disappeared somewhat during the last few minutes, adrenaline flowing through his veins faster than before. It would sustain him for a while, although he knew he would pay for it before the end.

"Legolas?" The Elf turned to find that one of the fighters going up against the Uruk-hai was none other than Eowyn herself. She was fighting alongside the Dwarf Gimli. Of course, Legolas had known that Eowyn had refused, despite her brother's fervent protests, to remain behind in Minas Tirith with the healers and incapable whilst others went out to fight for the Freedom of the same Middle Earth that she lived in. It was only natural that she would also be out on the Pelennor now. Gimli's presence made Legolas wonder whether her over-protective brother hadn't assigned her a protector to keep her safe. He almost smiled at that thought. Knowing the pride of the Dwarves, Gimli would not have taken kindly to such an assignment.

"Eowyn."

"Have you seen Eomer?"

"I haven't seen anyone but a few Gondorians who scattered when the Nazgul began descending."

"Right." She deflected a blow from an Uruk scimitar with a move that Legolas himself had shown her and he was impressed by her strength.

"I'm sure he's around somewhere, miss." Gimli shot a grin in her direction. He looked to be doing well enough. Not a fresh mark on him or on his tattered leather armour. The Dwarves might have been a short people but they were sturdy enough and well versed in the art of battle.

"Gimli is right. Concentrate on what you have to do here and nothing else." Legolas looked up as they went back to their fighting, pushing the Uruk-hai back towards their companions so that the numbers were evened out somewhat.

For a moment, Legolas considered searching for Aragorn. He had not seen the man since he had called the attack order. But he had to heed his advice to Eowyn and focus on the now, not on concern for another. The Men were holding their ground against the Uruks and the Orcs and even the superior fighters the Easterlings. It was the huge creatures carrying the Haradhrim with their bows and arrows and spears that were the real problem. Quick assessment had always been necessary in Mirkwood and as a commander he had trained hard to be able to look at a situation and determine the best way to get around it or confront it. There was nothing easy about taking down these enormous creatures. They trampled everything in their path. Human arrows bounced off of them like they were but useless twigs; their skin was simply too thick for them to penetrate, even at close range. The creatures were spooked easily though, which was something, but scaring them would undoubtedly only cause more chaos as they stumbled around dangerously. He scanned their huge forms looking for a weak spot. His eyes could only pick out one and it would be an impossible shot, even if he was as good an archer now as he had been when he commanded a patrol in Mirkwood. Or, at least, it was impossible from this angle.

"Gimli, come with me!" he called out to the Dwarf.

Gimli looked up at him in surprise at being summoned again so abruptly by the Elf. Then he looked to Eowyn, thinking of his promise to her brother. But the woman seemed to be doing well enough on her own and she was now surrounded by Gondorians. Decision made, he hurried towards the already retreating Elf. What Eomer didn't know couldn't hurt him; and he was not afraid of the Rohan man. Dwarves feared no Man.

Squaring his shoulders in renewed determination, Gimli nodded and turned away from the fighting woman of Rohan. "What are we doing?" the Dwarf asked, hefting his dripping axe over his shoulder.

"Taking out the enemy."

He could have demanded to know what on earth that cryptic explanation meant but Legolas was hurrying fast ahead of him already. The last time, Gimli had found himself quite at ease watching the Elf's back – although he had received some stick from his xenophobic father when Gloin had heard of his brief affiliation with Legolas. So he followed behind Legolas now without further comment, expectation that they might be something important to the cause building in the pit of his stomach and making the adrenaline surge away the heavy tiredness in his limbs.

Legolas led Gimli quickly and deftly through the tightly packed battlefield. He aimed for a creature indiscriminately. It didn't matter which one went down yet. The Men of Gondor were understandably avoiding the massive beasts wherever they possibly could, fearful not just of their impossibly big feet but also the warriors who sat astride them. Up close, they looked even more terrifying and Legolas felt his heart jolt slightly, fearful. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

But something had to be done and no one else had come up with anything and he was resolved.

On his way towards the nearest creature, Legolas retrieved several things from the ground without even stopping: dropped spears, arrows, darts, swords, everything he could carry. He thrust them all behind him at Gimli, who took them despite a startled cry every time Legolas shoved some piece of sharp weaponry into his hand without due caution.

"Stop here." Legolas brought them both to a halt. "I need you to distract it."

"Distract it?" echoed the Dwarf in stunned disbelief at what Legolas was proposing, his eyes rising to the enormous beast stood not thirty feet from them. "How?!"

"The rider."

Squinting up again through the mist, Gimli caught sight of the Haradhrim rider, sitting atop the creature's thick neck holding in his hands something akin to reins, which were attached by cruel looking hoops through the beast's flesh.

"I need them not to shoot at me."

"And the way you're going achieve do that is to have them shoot at _me_?"

"Precisely."

"That's your plan?!"

"Yes, Gimli."

"And just what are you going to be doing whilst I'm drawing all the fire and putting my neck on the line?"

Legolas shot him a grim smile then looked up at the creature heading towards them. "Stand well back when it falls."

At first, Gimli chuckled at this, thinking that surely Legolas had to be kidding. When no trace of humour could be found on the Elf's face though, the smile fell behind his beard. "You're not seriously going to take that thing down? Legolas?"

"Wish me luck." With that, Legolas was gone, running head on at the creature, seemingly without fear.

"Legolas! Idiot Elf," Gimli muttered under his breath, scowling after the foolhardy being. Then, when he saw arrows start to fly towards the running Elf as his approach was noticed, he set about doing as asked, throwing all the weaponry that Legolas had collected from the battlefield at the rider atop the giant creature. It worked. Fire immediately turned to Gimli.

The second he was close enough, Legolas whipped out his twin white knives and leapt at the moving leg of the huge beast carrying the Haradhrim. Slamming his knives into the thick hide of the creature, Legolas clung on tight as he was thrown first left then right in time with the natural walking movement of the great leg. Above him, he heard a roar, perhaps of pain, at the impalement, and Legolas felt the tremble as the steed shook its great head, but the creature barely broke stride. Using all his strength, Legolas tore out one knife with a pulse of slick, hot blood, before securing it into flesh just above, effectively using the knives to create climbing rungs up the leg. It was not easy. The constant movement made it awkward and the sheer thickness of the creature's limbs made implanting the knives harder than ever. But he persevered as best he could, refusing to give in to the exhausting toll his actions were taking on his already battered body.

Towards the creature's belly it became easier as the flesh was thicker and easier to shove the knives into. But by then his arms and legs were burning fiercely and his shirt was soaked in sweat and red with blood. No arrows rained down on him though so he assumed that Gimli was drawing fire well enough from below.

Finally, he reached his first destination – the strap wrapped around the giant creature's belly that secured the tower upon which the Haradhrim sat. Holding on with just one hand, Legolas used his free knife to slash at the strap, cutting out a swathe of flesh as he did so and making the creature roar again in agony.

Pulling out his other knife, Legolas grabbed the strap that held the now precariously perched tower and pulled, at the same time gaining some distance up the creature's side as well as pulling the tower down to fall from the great height. It worked. The Haradhrim had not been expecting such a thing to happen and didn't even have the time to fire their arrows down at Legolas before they found themselves toppling from the creature they rode to the ground below. The fall killed them all instantly, their bones breaking, necks snapping.

Legolas, meanwhile, managed to dance on feather-light feet up its belly, across its side and onto the creature's back. It didn't notice his presence, although seemed agitated that something heavy had been liberated from its back. Strolling easily along the length of its ridged spine, Legolas took out the startled rider, who, so involved with ducking Gimli's flying objects that he had barely noticed the raucous behind him, with a quick twist of the thick neck, throwing him down to join his comrades on the ground. Then, Legolas drew his bow and notched three Orc arrows all at one. He fired three directly into the creatures head and it swerved so dramatically that Legolas found himself almost thrown off. Had he had a Human's balance, he would have plummeted to his death. As it was, he managed to steady himself, running across the creature's head and onto its face, which was big enough that he could easily gain footing. He moved along to the creature's tusks, holding on tight and using all his balance to stay steady as the injured creature tossed its head from side to side. Legolas pulled out four more arrows. Two he fired hard into the right eye and the other two instantly into the left.

That was it for the creature. It could do no more. Dead almost instantly, its knees buckled beneath it and it went crashing to the ground. Legolas held on tight as it fell, crouching so he could grip the sharp tusks, keeping his eyes on the ground so that he could jump if it crashed down on its face.

He was forced to jump anyway, because the concussion from its falling would have thrown him off forcefully if he remained. He leapt gracefully away, running a short distance to be certain that no part of the huge monster would fall on and crush him.

He came to rest twenty feet from the fallen creature and not far from Gimli, who was standing staring at the dead beast open-mouthed in shock.

When Legolas came towards him though, Gimli shook his head, forcing the awe off his face to glare at the breathless, sweating Elf.

"I suppose I'm supposed to be impressed by that," the Dwarf dead-panned gruffly.

Legolas smiled wearily at him. "Not even a little?"

"Maybe a little," conceded Gimli as a smile worked its way onto his face. After all, it was quite a feat and they had once again worked well together.

"Come, my friend. If you are up for it, there are more yet to vanquish."

"More?" Gimli noticed that Legolas looked thoroughly exhausted from bringing down just that one beast; he wasn't sure that he would have the strength to take any more of them out. And yet, the Elf moved lithely past him, wiping his blood-caked knifes on his trousers as he did so, steeled for the next task. Gimli thought of the other men around on the battlefield. Would they be able to do what Legolas had done? Would they have the strength or the courage? Surely not. The young Dwarf knew little of the Elves, only what he had been taught in his childhood and the records regarding the Firstborn, with whom the Dwarves had relatively little to do with at the best of times, were sparse indeed. Most of what Gimli had learned had come from stories passed down from the ancient generations when the Dwarves were still young and the Elves already ancient. And naturally, few of the tales told to him by his father, grandfather or the elders were complimentary. They spoke of how the Elves distanced themselves from the other races, taking themselves out of the world and turning a blind eye to the world's suffering, leaving it to the other races to keep safe the lands. But they were at least accurate in describing the Elves' abilities. They were light of foot, fast, quick-witted and excellent fighters. Legolas had so far proven all of these things. Why now should Gimli begin to doubt?

So, he collected up weapons from the ground just as the Elf had done earlier, as he followed Legolas towards their next target – a slightly smaller creature bearing a tower that stood a story lower than the other. An easier target, Gimli thought. Perhaps Legolas was pacing himself after all.

"Ready, my friend?" Legolas asked easily, although he didn't wait for the reply before he charged in the same manner as before at the creature.

**OIOI**

"Legolas," Aragorn smiled when he saw one of the great beasts go down in a cloud of dust. No other he knew of could have pulled off such an incredible feat.

"He's mad." Faramir was staring at the space where the giant creature had been just a second ago with shrewd eyes and a look of slight distaste upon his face. To him, it seemed foolish to risk one's neck simply for the sake of showing off.

"Yes. But at least he is doing something useful."

"Are you suggesting that I am not?" demanded Faramir as he cut the head cleanly off a grinning Orc with more relish than was strictly necessary. The creature was so disfigured that it was barely recognisable even as that foul race but that did not dull the pleasure Faramir took from its death.

"No."

"We should go and help him." By some quirk of fate, the three commanders - Faramir, Aragorn and Eomer - had finally been brought together in a single skirmish. Unfortunately, that meant that the Orcs were drawn to them all the more. They could practically smell power and with three such powerful warriors all fighting together, it must have been nearly irresistible to them.

"How could we help?"

"I don't know."

Aragorn fought a smile when he thought of Eomer, who had never been too keen on the company of his testy Elven guardian, actually wanting to seek him out to aid him. "I'm sure that Legolas is doing just fine on his own." In truth, Aragorn knew that they had enough to worry about without going after creatures that, for Men at least, would have been undefeatable. "And if he isn't, he's sensible enough to back off."

"Sure, that sounds just like him," muttered Eomer sarcastically as he searched for his next victim.

This much, at least was unfortunately true, and it caused Aragorn to worry a little for his guardian. But what could he do in the midst of battle? Legolas would not take on something he couldn't handle. Always had Aragorn trusted him, he could not stop now.

**OIOI**

'Protect the Mumakil,' Legolas had heard some of the Haradhrim yelling as he and Gimli made their way through the giant creatures one by one. At least now he knew the names of the animals he was systematically bringing down with the aid of his Dwarven companion. The warning called from the Enemy did little to slow their pace though. Whenever the Mumakil riders caught on to one tactic, Legolas and Gimli instantly switched to another. They did not just bring down the creatures but they attacked Orc, Haradhrim, Easterling and anything else under the veil of the Shadow that dared to stand in their way and prevent them from reaching their targets.

It was an impressive sight. But they could not deny that they were fast running out of steam. Such exertions conducted by beings already on the brink of exhaustion were immensely draining and their tactics were becoming steadily more haphazard and reckless. Legolas had made the nearly impossible climb up Mumakil hide using just his sharp white knives five times by now and his arms and legs ached almost beyond endurance from the effort it took. His hands were cut where he occasionally sliced his flesh on his own knives by accident and there had been far too many close calls as arrows were fired down at them from atop the enormous beasts. He did not know how much more he could achieve in this fashion.

Gimli too was tiring. The riders sat high upon the heads of their huge steeds and continuously throwing so far and with such accuracy was draining.

And yet, together they persevered, spurred on by each separate victory achieved and the delighted cries of the Allies whenever they succeeded in a fresh kill. Whenever both felt too exhausted to immediately take down another animal, they simply moved on to hand to hand combat for a spell or Legolas could collect up some arrows and shoot some of the Haradhrim riders down from their elaborate wooden towers, confident that all the time Gimli was watching his back on the ground. In fact, the Dwarf seemed to go out of his way to keep the creatures away from Legolas whenever he, rather than admitting that he needed a while to regain his breath, suggested ridding the field of some more Orcs; it was as if the Dwarf was protecting him not just from the Shadow but himself as well. Once, Gimli had, as they ran in the direction of yet another Mumakil, shouted to the Elf that he needed to rest before taking on the next. He had noticed Legolas stumble, a sure indication that he needed to pause before taking on the creature they were working towards. The Elf's reaction to the shouted suggestion had been to blatantly ignore the comment while at the same time doing just as Gimli suggested. Rather than truly pausing though the Elf stubbornly took out his irritation on the unfortunate grouping of Goblins that happened to be passing them in that moment. Against an irritated Legolas being watched the whole time by the ever critical Gimli, the creatures never even stood a chance.

The easy alliance of Elf and Dwarf was broken rather abruptly when Gimli found himself facing down a true monster of an Orc during one of their short 'respites', as Legolas liked to call them. It was highly ranked, perhaps the highest amongst the regular Orc army, certainly the highest ranked Gimli had encountered so far, and clearly come from Mordor. Gimli was guarding Legolas as he took shots at the towers atop the next beast that they were planning on bringing down when, momentarily distracted when he spotted a Goblin aiming its arrow at Legolas' exposed back, the Orc snuck up behind him, striking down with its broadsword and catching Gimli completely off guard.

His armour saved him. The mighty blow glanced off his helmet, which fell from his head and bounced on the blood-soaked ground. Stunned, Gimli fell to the ground only a moment after his helm. No serious injury had been inflicted and yet dizziness assailed him and he found that he could not get up immediately as he would have wished. Perhaps, he wondered idly as the grinning Orc bore down on him, he had a concussion. Every time he blinked, white light assailed him and each time it became harder to open his eyes again.

When he did finally force his heavy eyelids apart, the giant Orc was no longer standing over him but rather lying dead a few feet away from him with the pearly white handle of Legolas' knife penetrating from its armoured chest.

"Quite a throw, Elf," mumbled the Dwarf in surprise at the ferocity it must have taken to implant the knife so deeply through solid metal armour.

Legolas was suddenly at his side and Gimli squinted up at him, head aching fiercely. "You should be more careful," the Elf admonished lightly, eyes darting to look about himself for danger before going to Gimli to assess for injury. He didn't like what he saw. Blood was oozing from the Dwarf's hairline, spilling freely over his forehead, down his nose and dripping off the end to splash on his filthy trousers. Head wounds were notoriously dangerous, Legolas knew, and there was little doubt that the Dwarf was altered.

"Was watching your back, Elf," Gimli said but the words were worryingly slow and slurred and felt awkward forcing themselves around his tongue.

Checking once again around him to ensure that nothing was about to attack, Legolas grabbed Gimli's arm and dragged him to his feet with a struggle. "Come, my friend."

"Where…?" Gimli looked behind him as Legolas led him away. "But…the Mum…"

"We shall deal with the rest later. We must get you to a healer first."

"Heal…? Why?"

"Because you have been hurt."

Gimli raised his hand to his aching head, groping briefly for his helmet, which was no longer where it was supposed to be, he realised with bemusement. "No. It's nothing. Just a scratch," he protested as he twisted in Legolas' grip to look for his lost helm.

"It is more than a scratch."

"But…" Once again, Gimli's hand came up to probe his head wound, as if trying to convince his newest fighting companion that there was nothing at all wrong with him. He failed miserably though. When he pulled his hand back to inspect it, thick blood coated his fingers. For a moment, he couldn't equate it with the pain that rammed the inside of his skull. His mind told him that it was simply blood from another hurt during the vicious battle. And yet it was red, not the black of the Orcs. "Huh," he muttered almost to himself, rubbing his finger and thumb together as though to confirm that it was real and not a figment of his imagination. Suddenly, his legs buckled beneath him and he would have fallen had Legolas not been holding him up by the arms.

"Come, Gimli," Legolas almost growled, hauling the Dwarf back onto his feet and taking a stumbling step forwards. "I will not carry you!"

"What happened?"

Legolas span on the spot, taking a startled Gimli with him, to face the sound of the voice he recognised. "Eowyn!"

"He is hurt."

"Yes. An Orc hit him."

"No! I'm fine," insisted the Dwarf woozily with a wave of his hand, even as he leaned against the Elf's side for support as he struggled to regain his footing after Legolas' abrupt movement.

"I need to get him to a healer," Legolas told her, shifting his arm around the stout creature to keep him upright. The Dwarf was heavier than he expected, he did not relish the thought of having to carry him back to the city should he fall.

"I don't need…healers." Gimli hefted his axe rather weakly up a little way but it dropped to the ground, almost hitting Legolas' toe in the process. "There is battle to be…done."

"No more battle for you," Legolas couldn't help but smile a little.

"I'll take him. I know where a healer is helping another on the field," assured Eowyn, passing her arm around Gimli's shoulders. Her shrewd green eyes raked across Legolas as the Elf made sure that Gimli was standing before handing him over to the woman. "You are hurt too," she observed, her gaze on the torn fabric of his shirt. By now it was ripped and dyed with more red than its original colour.

"I am well, Eowyn. Get him to a physician with all haste. That head wound needs seeing to."

"But won't you need help? I've seen what you've been doing, Legolas, and you cannot possibly do it alone."

"Don't worry. I will be fine on my own." He offered her a brief smile before going to turn.

Before he could leave though, a loud, keening cry came from just above him and he could feel one of the Fell Beasts swept down from the skies. Legolas tried to call a warning to the woman and Dwarf but it was too late. Great claws swept over them, knocking both Gimli and Eowyn down and throwing them a way across the ground as though they were nothing but dried leaves. Legolas watched in horror as they fell hard in a mass of flailing limbs, limp as they lost consciousness, and the Beast, bearing its Dark master, came to land in the space it had just cleared.

His eyes were locked for a moment on the fallen woman and Dwarf, who remained motionless where they had landed. But the Wraith before him demanded his attention more than his fallen friends.

There was no way of knowing whether this Nazgul was one of the ones he had faced once before in the cave when they had first attacked. To him they all felt the same. But the thing fairly radiated evil as only the Nazgul could. The feeling swept over him in waves that had an almost physical effect on him. He staggered a little but kept his balance with a struggle. He could not fall now; it would be the end of him.

The Wraith sat atop his terrible, snarling steed for a long moment, simply watching Legolas with ultimate serenity, like a fearsome predator that was satisfied that it had its pray trapped and that Legolas was beyond escape or aid.

If the loathsome creature itself had not been enough to chill Legolas' blood then the unbelievable power radiating from its towering black form would have done the job. Its entire body screamed of the Shadow, purer than anything else he had ever encountered, even the Mouth of Sauron whom he had so recently bested, and for a moment Legolas could well have believed that he were looking into the very heart of Sauron himself. The Wraith seemed entirely unconcerned by the fierce battle raging around it. There was no anger in its form, just a deep, impossible malice that was almost too potent to bear.

Legolas wanted to run. He wanted to turn tail and run away as fast as his aching legs could carry him. It would have been an act of cowardice, he knew, but he found that he did not care. Never had he wanted anything more than to escape the sights of this monster towering over him. And yet he could not flee as he craved. He was frozen, it seemed, to this very spot, unable to do anything that might save his life. The creature's unrelenting stare, even though it could not be seen behind a spiked helmet of black metal, seemed to burn into his very soul, mesmerising and paralysing him with terror at the same time. He shivered openly, for the creature knew just what effect it had on him; there was no point in hiding it.

He could not think of Eowyn or Gimli when such terrible fear him and allowed himself a second to be glad that they had been tossed aside, for the power of this Shadow was great and he did not want either of his friends to have to confront such evil as he was now fated to do. There was no way out of this for him. He knew this without question. This was his fate, what everything had been leading up to. All those sneaking suspicions that his end was on the horizon had finally materialised. He should have been glad for the end. But the battle was not done yet. His time was not over and he would not leave this world in this manner.

Legolas again considered that fleeing this particular menace might be the best course of action if only he could coax his treacherous body into moving but he reasoned that he couldn't possibly outrun such a creature and on the battlefield there was no place to hide even if he could move. And yet, he could not fight the Wraith either. Last time he had faced up against these creatures he had barely escaped with his life.

Stood on the spot, unable to move or even react, Legolas tried desperately to get his brain to work, to think his way out of this. For years in his youth Mirkwood had lived with the Wraiths right on their doorstep in Dul Guldur and yet he had never personally encountered one before the beginning of the Final War. He needed to do something now. The Wraith was not just going to sit there forever waiting for him to decide what to do. It must have sensed his indecision as Legolas felt the air around him fairly ripple with laughter. It found him amusing, he realised with a sudden feeling of intense dread. He was only alive now because it was playing with him.

Determined that he would not allow this creature of Shadow to belittle him so, Legolas finally made the decision that sealed his fate. He just hoped he had enough strength left in him for his foolish plan.

It took a second longer than he would have liked for his body to catch up with what his mind wished it to do. Suddenly, however, he lurched forwards, raising both white Elven knives in a quick and perhaps unnecessary flourish. Rather than going for the Wraith though, he attacked the unsuspecting Fell Beast on which the Wraith still perched watching over the battle and waiting for the Elf's move.

Whilst its master had been keeping a close eye on the Elf, the steed's serpentine head had been moving back and forth, as though scanning the battlefield for possible prey, although it was being reined in by the black creature riding it. Hundreds of small but deadly sharp pointed teeth snapped occasionally at something it took a fancy to and Legolas could easily picture it feasting on whatever flesh remained when the battle at Pelennor was done, picking over the remains like a terrible carrion bird.

Legolas pushed aside his revulsion and focused on what needed to be done.

Before the wicked steed could react to the threat thundering towards it with a cry of fury, Legolas' knife had hacked off one side of its neck and it let out a dreadful screech, rivalling even that unearthly calls of the Nazgul. It could do nothing to defend itself once the first blow struck and it seemed to hold no loyalty to its dark rider either; all its senses had been dulled by this first strike against its flesh and it was easy then for Legolas to lash out again with his left hand and entirely severe the creature's hideous head from its long, thin neck.

Momentarily stunned by what he had done, more so even than the Wraith who had had to jump down rather abruptly from his felled steed to avoid being thrown off completely, Legolas stumbled backwards away from the creature as its body followed its head to the ground with a loud thump and a wet billow of mud and blood. That had been remarkably easy, he considered with a private smile. If only the creature's rider could fall so easily then he might just stand a chance. Legolas was not altered enough to believe that to be true though. Slaying the steed had been the easy part.

High above him, Legolas heard the ear-piercing squeals of the beasts' eight companions. They knew what had happened to their companion, and Legolas knew that already they would be longing for revenge upon the one who had stolen their brother from them. The Wraiths riding them though made no sound or attempt to come to the aid of their now grounded leader nor did they allow their steeds to become too distracted by their loss. Tugging hard on the reins, they climbed higher into the air again, heads all turned to different points on the battlefield. They were not worried for the life of the Witchking of Angmar and Legolas did not blame them for their blasé attitude. Indeed, he understood it completely.

"Fool." A single, hissed word, filled with so much festering hatred that it chilled the Elf to the core. No cruel amusement anymore from the Shadow, Legolas noted the change in the air with dread. Sauron and his minions had grown tired of the game at last. The Nazgul had been sent to dispose of Aragorn and his guardian once and for all and no doubt return the Ring the young man possessed to the one they thought to be its rightful owner and now the Witchking was going to do just that. The thought of his ward in such peril sent fear in a shock down Legolas' spine, turning his legs weak and his setting his heart racing furiously. But he had to focus, not on Aragorn but on the creature in front of him. For the moment at least, Aragorn was out of harm's way – or at least so Legolas hoped. There were, after all, eight of the Witchking's brethren circling high above, waiting for the opportunity to present itself and give them what they coveted. Or perhaps they were simply waiting for the end of the battle whereby they could descend onto the Pelennor and sift through the bodies to gain the Ring of Power back for their master.

Legolas steeled himself. His actions had ensured that there was most definitely no escaping for him. He had cast the first blow. He had to see it through to the end now. Raising his knives, slick with the blood of the Fell Beast, he planted his feet firmly apart and tried to shove the tingling sense of terror from his mind and prepare himself for battle with the unbeatable.

The Wraith came to stand before him, maybe ten feet away from him; unlike Legolas, undaunted by the imminent battle. It carried a huge sword in its clawed, gloved hand. In the other hand, it held a simply massive black mace, spiked on a long chain that even resting inert at his side looked horribly threatening.

Swallowing back the bitter taste of fear, Legolas suddenly found himself fervently hoping that the Witchking hadn't noticed that it had been him who had earlier killed the Mouth of Sauron. Such an injury to the Shadow would surely only provoke him further. He adjusted his Elven knives in his hands and for the first time in his battling life, despite the usually comforting presence of the Elven protection and battle runes decorating the perfect blades, they felt so horribly inferior. What chance did he stand?

His father's face flashed through his mind then. His wife and children. And then Erestor and Elrond's proud faces. His kindred. Was he to die as his family and friends had? In terror and praying to the Valar for a quick demise? No! He would not allow himself to come to the same end here on Pelennor. He owed it to them, to their memory, to carry on as he always had. And he had sworn to defend his ward until the bitter end and the War was not over yet. There was much still to do in order to secure Gondor and Aragorn's place in it. He could not fall in this battle.

Things seemed almost to move in slow motion – or so it felt to Legolas. Up until now, he had found the battle fast and unrelenting even when he himself felt weak and sluggish. And yet the Wraith moved slowly, almost floating towards him with long strides of its legs hidden behind layers of tattered black robes. The air crackled with unseen power, as though charged, and it put Legolas even more ill at ease than before. The urge to step back, retreat from this monstrosity was almost overwhelming and it took every ounce of his willpower to keep from doing so.

Much as when he had first battled the Mouth of Sauron in Osgiliath, Legolas found himself curiously mesmerised, as if he was being manipulated by something way beyond his control that had invaded his mind and was playing him as a puppet. He tried to shake off the feeling but could not. The power was too great to resist.

"Die now," the Witchking hissed wickedly.

This was a great moment in the battle that so far he had been naught but an observer to. To get to kill one of the hated Firstborn was a blessing greater than any he could have hoped for. Sauron wanted the boy taken to Mordor. He did not care what happened to the guardian. But the Witchking cared very much. All the Shadow creatures hated the Elves above all else. They represented everything that stood against their master and his dominion. Therefore, they deserved nothing less than the most painful death available. Perhaps, had it been any other Elf, the Witchking would not have himself come to fight. He would have sent one of his lesser Wraiths. He felt no fear for he was untouchable by such simple creatures but to lower himself into battle with a lesser being felt unseemly in a way. But the guardian had been nothing but a nuisance to his master ever since they had learned of the threat of the Human King. Against all of his master's plans, this Elf had stood in the way. That was inexcusable and warranted a death handed out by the Witchking himself.

Legolas said nothing in turn as the Witchking stopped and raised his great mace as though it were made of the lightest steel although Legolas knew that it was not. He could not take his eyes off the evil-looking weapon.

Faster than it seemed he was possible of moving, the Wraith brought the mace down hard, aimed perfectly for Legolas.

Fortunately, Legolas still possessed his Elven speed and dodged out of the way, feeling the breeze created by the fast arch that had passed troublingly close to him ruffle his loose hair. A snarl came from the Nazgul but he was not deterred by initial failure. He was a patient being. It was only a matter of time before the Elf was ended.

Twice more, the great black mace came perilously close to striking him. Both times he managed to duck out of the way a split second before it connected. The blows were impossibly strong, that much was obvious, kicking up dirt as they splintered and split the ground around the Elf. There was no doubt that if they hit Legolas head-on they would be immediately fatal, shattering his bones like brittle twigs and wrenching the flesh from his body.

Due to the attacks and having to dodge every blow delivered by the Witchking of Angmar, Legolas had little chance to get any blows of his own in. His own knives looked paltry and pathetic compared with the massive broadsword and mace of the Nazgul. Legolas found himself wishing futilely that he had a flaming torch with him. Fire had chased the Wraiths away the last time they had met, he recalled. No such weapon was close enough to him now though to be of any help. The nearest source of fire burned far away at the gates of the First Level of Minas Tirith where it still kept out the Orcs. Much too far.

As he ducked low again to avoid a third strike, Legolas rolled forward, bringing himself closer to the being. The Nazgul had not been expecting the bold move as it appeared startled, recoiling ever so slightly from the Elf. Legolas embraced this moment of surprise as a gift, slashing at the Witchking's arm which bore the mace with his Elven crafted knife. The creature let out a terrible, ear-piercing screech as Elvish steel hit true and Legolas dropped his knife with a similar cry of agony. Falling to his knees at the Witchking's feet, he dropped his other weapon to cradle his burning hand. It felt as though it was being scorched, so intense was the heat and pain ripping through his flesh and blood.

The Nazgul were immensely powerful creatures. Even without direct contact, they could harm their attackers. Even though the blow had been delivered by his Elvish blade, Legolas felt as though he had himself been attacked with a physical weapon of the Nazgul. Unnatural heat rushed throughout his body, making him sweat and contracting his throat until it felt as though he was being strangled by the power of it.

If it was possible, then the mood on war-torn Pelennor changed darker still. It was as though the Witchking of Angmar were dictating the air pressure and the clouds in the sky for suddenly both seemed to bear down on the Men remaining alive and all could tell that something in this battle had changed.

He could not remember the last time he had been wounded. It was the Elven steel. It was as horrific to the Shadow as was the Shadow's Black Death to the forces of Light. It recoiled in horror at the slash marring its left arm, cut clean through his armour. The mace, given to him by the Dark Lord himself so that he could triumph in this battle, lay on the ground beyond his reach. Pain. It was so very unfamiliar. But it was replaced a moment later by anger. No. Not anger. Fury. It had been touched by the Light, wounded by one of the Firstborn. That was unacceptable.

Unfortunately, by the time it had recovered its senses, Legolas too had recovered sufficiently to gain his feet. He stumbled up and took a few limping steps away from the infuriated creature. The pain was unbelievable seeing as he had not actually been struck and he knew that despite his moment of triumph he was still significantly weaker than the Wraith looming over him. If such agony could be created by merely scratching the Shadow-creature with his blade then what would actually killing it do to him? Still, he could not worry about the consequences of victory right then. He just had to stay alive and pay the price.

Really, Legolas never stood a chance. He was one Elf against incomparable power. The next few blows delivered by the Wraith were almost impossibly strong, fuelled by its rage at the wound already inflicted by the Elf it was fighting. Worried that he could not withstand the strength of the sword that threatened to pound him into the ground, Legolas retreated back again. There was no shame in running from this monster, Legolas told himself encouragingly. Anyone would have done the same in his position.

But it was too late for retreat now. The Witchking had had a taste of vengeance. It would not be put off by a symbol of withdrawal, not when its pride had been so badly bruised already by Legolas' actions. It wanted blood. As Legolas backed away, constantly checking over his shoulder to ensure that he wasn't about to be taken down by any rogue Orcs – although about this he needn't have worried for they all fled from the Wraith as it approached, more terrified of their own ally than of the Men they were fighting – the Wraith stalked him, long strides taking it easily across the field as Legolas stumbled indelicately through the raging battle.

The force behind the Wraith's strikes was unbelievable and, after parrying just two such blows, Legolas felt his arms weakening almost to the point of being useless. As he predicted would happen, the third strike knocked his knife from his hand. He followed the bright white handle with his eyes as it was thrown away from him.

A sense of satisfaction filled the air then. An armed Elf was an admittedly tricky opponent; an unarmed Elf was barely a diversion to a creature as powerful as the Witchking.

When his weapon was thrown from his grip, Legolas found himself also thrown back. He landed hard on the ground atop a slaughtered Orc carcass, winded by the force of the fall and dazed as his head slapped back against the ground. For a moment, he couldn't bring himself to move. His immobility felt like it lasted an eternity, although by the mere fact that he was not cut in two by the Wraith sword it couldn't have been more than a couple of seconds. Senses returned, Legolas rolled off the corpse just in time to avoid the deadly weapon coming towards him.

The Wraith having to pull its sword from the thick hide of the Orc it had pierced by accident offered Legolas a valuable couple of seconds. He couldn't force his exhausted, battered body upright though. He couldn't run. He couldn't hide. He couldn't escape.

Crawling on his belly, Legolas dragged himself away from the looming darkness of the Nazgul. Death was not in his mind. He would not die here and now. He would not fall to one of them. Grubby fingers groped for some kind of weapon; he didn't care whether it was Human-forged or Shadow. Anything was better than the nothing he now had.

Annoyingly – unbelievably – he couldn't find anything sharp with which to fight the Wraith. In amongst all this warring and he couldn't find a single weapon! Despair began to creep into his mind. What good was he without a weapon?

Finally, as the Wraith approached closer still, Legolas' fingers came into contact not with steel but with wood. An Orc shield. Not a weapon exactly but good enough under the circumstances. Legolas heaved it up and turned himself over so he was facing the Wraith. A mere moment later, the massive broadsword pounded down. The concussion reverberating through the wood threatened to break Legolas' wrists it was so great. The shield, pressed down on him so it touched his body and stole the breath from him and made his ribs ache, splintered showered him and he squeezed his eyes shut automatically to protect them from the shower of tortured wood.

Angered by this new defence standing between it and its prey, the Nazgul snarled, a truly terrible sound that made Legolas shudder, then slammed down again and again with its sword in almost a frenzy.

Certain that the shield would shatter very soon under the force of the attack, Legolas began desperately searching around for anything else that might be of use to him. Nothing. There was nothing!

The shield finally cracked down the middle. The Wraith's brutal pounding was always going to break through at some point; in truth Legolas was amazed that it had lasted this long. When Legolas felt the sword strike again, he shoved the shield upwards, hoping to knock the Wraith of balance for a brief moment in order that he might overpower it and escape from beneath it.

Leaping up to his feet, Legolas threw what remained of the shattered shield aside. This was a mistake he realised far too late.

Although he could not see the Witchking's face from behind the terrible, spiked mask and helmet it wore, Legolas could tell instinctively that the creature was smiling. It had won. They both realised in the same instant.

Finally, Legolas stopped moving away. If he was going to die then it wasn't going to be in retreat. Nevertheless, as the black-robed shade raised its sword, Legolas flinched, his body tensing ready for the killing blow about to be delivered.

Disappointment very nearly drowned him. He had failed his ward, he had failed Arathorn and all of Gondor as well just as he had failed his family before. Tears stung his eyes but he would never allow them to fall before his murderer.

Sword raised high in the air, blade gleaming in the dim light of the torches in the distance, the Wraith went to bring down the killing blow at last.

Suddenly, however, it screamed a terrible scream, louder than ever before. It was not a noise of glee but of anger.

Legolas startled. What could have provoked such a noise?

Then, to his utter amazement, the Wraith, tall and terrifying just a second before, dropped its sword, which clattered uselessly to the ground not far from Legolas' feet, and seemed to fold in on itself. It bent forward in the middle as if bodily injured then arched backwards, unleashing another unearthly yell to the heavens.

Above, the other Wraiths suddenly screamed as well, as one, filling the ears of every warrior still battling down on the field. They banked sharply, as if finally going to the aid of their brother, but then they swept back up, higher into the sky than before.

The Witchking suddenly buckled even further. Its legs folded beneath it and it collapsed to the boggy ground, sinking into the mud, back still arched at an unnatural angle. Now that the Wraith was down, Legolas was able to see the cause of its agony. Behind it, holding limply in her pale hands what remained of a sword, the blade snapped cleanly in half somehow, the tip presumably embedded in the Wraith, stood Eowyn.

The woman met Legolas' shocked eyes after a long moment, seemingly just as stunned as the Elf at what had occurred.

She had seen what was happening to her friend and reacted instinctively, without thought. Running through the mass of fighting to where she had seen the huge black-robed being chasing after Legolas, she had swept up a fallen sword once belonging to one of her now slain people and, while the Wraith was distracted trying to get at Legolas, she had done the only thing she could think of – thrust the sword deep into the back of the creature where she hoped its spinal cord sat.

The reaction had been unexpected. There had been a momentary pause, as if it hadn't known what was happening and couldn't process the truth of its demise. Then the being had buckled and Eowyn had felt the blade snap. She almost fell backwards but just about managed to maintain her balance.

Stunned that he was still alive, Legolas staggered slightly where he stood. He had been injured further during the attack and his arm still felt like it was burning with invisible fire. No doubt Eowyn felt the same – if not worse. Had he encountered even the weakest Goblin in that moment he did not doubt that it would have beaten him in battle. His whole being screamed with pain and exhaustion.

Suddenly, the Witchking let out another wretched screech.

The next thing Legolas knew he was being thrown backwards with such force that he thought he had been hit by the wings of one of the Fell Beasts still circling high above. But there was nothing but the crumbling Wraith before him. It was as if in its final death throes, it had sent out a final weapon; a concussion wave that knocked everything within its path off their feet.

Legolas knew no more and only vaguely heard the terrible crying from above before everything turned black and silent.

**To Be Continued…**


	70. The Living And The Dead

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thank you all so much. So many reviews! I hope you like this next chapter. Enjoy**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 70 – The Living And The Dead**

The noise was terrible. Worse by far than when the Nazgul had attacked Osgiliath. The sound of pitiful screeching and wailing filled the air, making it thick with anger and…sadness? Aragorn wanted desperately to cover his ears, to block out the sound, for it hurt to hear their unnatural cries, but he could not. The Orcs had been momentarily stunned by the noise too but they had recovered quickly and had started up the battle again, many taking advantage of the moment of distraction the Men suffered from.

Only the remaining Easterlings and Haradhrim paused in their fighting. They seemed to physically recoil at the ear-splitting noise. It hurt them, burned them. Their steeds, the Mumakil, went berserk at the keening; they reared up, unheeding of the barked commands of their riders to calm down, and stampeded away, throwing the towers from their backs in their fear. They trampled all the men who dared get in their way and a fair few of their masters as well.

What had caused this chaos was obvious to everybody. The Wraiths were reeling from the death of their leader. The shockwave that had gone through the battlefield didn't extend as far as Aragorn, who was close to the city now trying to keep the Orcs and Uruk-hai away from the gates. But he could still feel the aftermath, a ripple of power through the air, followed almost immediately by a strange, white-blue light, like lightning.

One of the Wraiths had fallen and the others were now uncoordinated.

Aragorn turned his gaze to the skies during a brief lull in the fighting. The Nazgul had gone higher up, almost hidden by the roiling grey clouds. But as Aragorn looked up, they swooped back down and the man immediately feared the worst: Retaliation for their comrade's death. But they did not descend. They instead swept away, back towards the mountains, back towards Mordor. Aragorn could hardly believe what he was seeing. The Nazgul, impossibly powerful beings and Sauron's greatest, deadliest allies, were fleeing the battle.

The atmosphere on the battlefield changed dramatically again then. The Shadow recoiled in horror when it realised almost as one that the Nazgul had abandoned the fight whilst the Men rejoiced. A surge of strength went through the Human ranks when they realised that the Shadow was disheartened at the desertion of the Nazgul. Those defending the city pushed the attacking hoards back away from the barriers of fire.

Still, victory was far from secured for the forces of Light. Many of the Enemy still were up and fighting, disturbed but not entirely put off by the departure of their comrades in the sky. If anything, the Orcs grew more vicious at the retreat, perhaps sensing their demise was near at hand and fearing what would happen to them if they did not get the better of the Human invaders.

The abandonment of the Nazgul was a mystery to him and Aragorn searched his mind to try to figure out who could have actually destroyed one of them. He feared the answer. Legolas would not have hesitated to confront them; if he knew his guardian as he thought he did then Aragorn believed Legolas capable of actively seeking out such danger, as he had proven in taking down several of the giant steeds of the Haradhrim. But Aragorn also considered Ciaran. It would be foolish not to suspect the young Ranger. He had not seen Kinnale's son since they had first entered Minas Tirith. Would he really have been so foolish as to seek vengeance for the killing of his father by the Wraiths? Aragorn hoped not. Although his skill had grown considerably of late, mostly because Aragorn had insisted that he train with Legolas and the Rohirrim right alongside him, he doubted that the young man could kill a Wraith all by himself.

For now, Aragorn determined, who had slain one of the Nine would have to remain a mystery – infuriatingly.

Distracted by the puzzle of what had changed the fortunes of Men in this battle, Aragorn's concentration slipped just a little. It was a dangerous thing during such an intense battle. The blow caught him on the left shoulder and sent him staggering forward. Aragorn barely managed to keep his balance, made all the harder by the fact that he had to swing around quickly to confront his surprise attacker. It was an Uruk. And it was massive. Bigger than any Aragorn had encountered previously, it stood at almost seven feet tall, carried a huge black sword, chipped and scarred through many blows. Worryingly, Aragorn noticed the red blood and gore of his people already painting the blade.

Anduril still felt reassuringly heavy clasped tightly in his hand and he found it hard now to imagine that once he had feared the Sword of Elendil Remade. Now it was the only weapon he had left, having used or lost all the others he had collected when inside the city, but he knew that it would be enough; he was confident. Raising it in preparation, Aragorn stared unflinchingly into the yellow eyes of the Uruk, his own grey eyes narrowed and calculating; looking, just as Legolas had always taught him, for the chink in the armour.

However, skill in battle was so often eclipsed by sheer might and so was the case now as Aragorn faced this beast. It was too big for him to take on alone. That much became obvious with the first blow delivered. Their swords' edges ground together when they first collided but Aragorn could not hold back the creature as he had hoped to do. It put too much strength behind the chipped blade it carried and he was pushed backwards, the snarling Uruk moving him at will.

It was frustrating and Aragorn felt his confidence begin to sag along with his strength. He was tired. His arms felt heavy and unresponsive, making all of Anduril's impressiveness seem somewhat redundant. How he would have liked to have one of his men with him right then; they might have provided some protection, some aid against this creature.

But it was just him. Everyone else was busy with their own personal battles, no doubt just like him feeling the strain. No, he was all alone. As he was thrown back when their swords parted, Aragorn found his mind going once again to Legolas. Was he facing a far worse foe on his own? Had he really taken on one of the Wraiths? Even the possibility made Aragorn quiver with anger and fear. Had Legolas not promised just a couple of days ago to do nothing foolish that might get him killed? How could his guardian abandon his promise. There was no doubt in Aragorn's mind who had taken down the Mouth of Sauron and he knew for certain that it had been Legolas who had killed several of the enormous beasts the Haradhrim rode. Was that not breaking a sworn promise? But what could Aragorn really do? Legolas had a mind of his own. The man simply had to trust that Legolas knew his limitations, knew what he was doing and be sensible enough to pull back when things got really bad. Shuddering involuntarily, Aragorn pressed his mind back to the task at hand. Focusing on Legolas would not win him this battle.

Two more clashes of their swords nearly made Aragorn's grip loosen on the sweat-coated leather of Anduril's handle, but he wrapped his fingers tighter around the handle and added his other hand too in order to strengthen his grip.

"A fine prize you will be. My master has been searching long for you," growled the Uruk-hai menacingly as it stalked forward slowly moving backwards. It felt like a retreat, which Aragorn did not like one bit, but he reasoned with himself that this was giving him time to search for the right moment to launch another attack. "And what you carry. That shall be mine before the end of this day, I swear it."

Immediately, Aragorn felt the weight in his pocket increase, so much so that it made him almost physically stagger. Sauron searched still for the Ring. The Wraiths had failed to retrieve it as had no doubt been their intention in Gondor, turning tail when their leader had fallen to the swords of Man but it seemed that all of the Dark Lord's minions, even these lesser ones, were on the hunt for the elusive Ring of Power and they had been briefed that the King of Gondor was the one who possessed it.

Steeling himself, face hard and determined as it hadn't been before, Aragorn said in a low voice, "You will not have it. Your master will never have it so long as I live."

A cruel smile crossed the face of the Uruk as if this was greatly amusing to it. "That is not a problem. You will not live much longer, Human."

Aragorn adjusted his grip on his sword again, suddenly unaware of everything else going on around him. Men were still falling all about him, their lack of energy making them easier targets than ever for the remaining Shadow. Sauron's servants were scared now that their allies in the skies had abandoned them and that made them far more terrifying fighters. The Wraiths' retreat had not taken away their bloodlust, nor their fear of what would happen should they follow the Dark Shadows back to Mordor.

"We'll see."

The Uruk smiled again, a wicked grin, and charged forward, throwing its full bodyweight into the lunge. Aragorn ducked to the side and slammed the edge of his sword at the creature's back. Its armour clanged as the blade struck but the blow barely threw the Uruk off course. It probably hurt Aragorn more than it hurt the creature, the man thought with some disappointment. Unfortunately, during the small amount of time he had been granted to scan the Uruk's armour for faults or weaknesses, he had not found a single one. The only exposed part of the beast was its neck and it was wise enough to know not to let Aragorn get anywhere near its most vulnerable point.

It was as if the threat to his most precious possession gave Aragorn the strength to continue though. Without pause, he struck out again, charging and slashing at the creature's legs. Anduril merely drew with a squeal across unmarked metal armour, indicating that this Uruk was from Mordor and not from Isengard as many of its fellows. Aragorn darted around the creature – at least he had the small advantage of being slightly more nimble than the cumbersome Uruk-hai – and hit it again, on the chest this time. The Uruk had not been expecting the burst of speed and by the time it had struck out at Aragorn, the man had gone again.

In the end though, speed just wasn't enough. As Aragorn looped around the slow-moving Uruk once more in attempt to get in another blow, he was suddenly struck down. Not with a sword but rather with something blunt – an armoured Uruk arm, he guessed in his dazed state. He hit the ground hard. The Uruk had anticipated his move and reacted before Aragorn even realised what was happening. Unable to get his weapon up fast enough, the Uruk had struck out with its metal plated arm, hitting Aragorn squarely in the face and sending him down onto his back.

Laughter filtered through Aragorn's mind. He must have banged his head when he fell, he realised, because the clouded sky above him was swimming in a most unnatural way. He tried to rise but the moment he moved even a little he regretted it. Nausea swept over him and he had to grit his teeth against the pain that exploded in the back of his head. Above him, the Uruk suddenly appeared. It had a grin on its face again, exposing rotting teeth stained with what Aragorn strongly suspected was blood.

Straddling Aragorn, the Uruk bent down and grabbed Anduril by the blade with both hands, unhurt by the Elven forged blade. Aragorn tried to hold onto the sword but he didn't have any strength left in his hands and the creature pulled it from his weak fingers with ease and threw it away out of their reach. Lowering itself down lower so that it was crouched directly over Aragorn, long fingers trailed down the man's heaving chest, searching for what it had come for.

"No!" Aragorn cried when the hand slipped into his pocket and came out with the Ring hooked on the end of its chunky finger. "No!" Although the man tried to grab it, the Uruk easily held him down, using all its weight to keep its prey pinned to the ground. That didn't stop Aragorn struggling. Kicking out, Aragorn tried desperately to free himself. Yellow eyes were no longer focused on the struggling man on the ground but rather on the thin band of gold it held up before its expressive face. Aragorn had seen that look before. Longing. He could easily picture that very same expression upon his own face whenever he looked at the Ring.

The Uruk laughed again, barely taking any note of Aragorn now it had what his master wanted so badly. Or perhaps, with this great weapon, the time of the Uruk would rise, with him as their master, and Sauron would no longer be the keeper of the Shadow. So many possibilities that the intelligent creature of Darkness could now consider. Sauron would rue the day he had deigned to rise the Orcs from the wallows of stupidity and give them wits.

"Boys," roared the Uruk to its comrades nearby. "Things have changed." It rose up from its position sat atop Aragorn, Ring still clutched in strong fingers.

Aragorn found that he couldn't move. Nothing physical now pinned him to the ground and yet he was stuck nonetheless. He could not raise his body off the ground. And he could only watch as the Uruk gazed with shining eyes at the Ring. His heart raced in his chest, pounding hard in terror at what this meant. He had lost the Ring. He felt suddenly and inexplicably bereft, so much so that tears sprang to his eyes and he could barely draw breath.

"Kill it," commanded the Uruk, looking down at Aragorn for the first time since taking up the Ring of Power.

Immediately, as if sensing the change in circumstances amongst their race, the Uruk-hai abandoned their fights with the surprised Men of Gondor and advanced on their new king's prone position. In the absence of the Wraiths, any leader would do and they were drawn to the power of the One if not the commands of the Uruk.

The Uruk-hai all advanced on Aragorn, dripping weapons drawn and ready to shed the blood of Gondor's proclaimed king.

Finding himself surrounded and still inexplicably incapable of movement, Aragorn could do nothing but lay there and wait. He wanted to close his eyes against the death he knew was coming but he was too afraid to take his eyes off the Enemy coming towards him. He recalled Legolas' tales to him of the Uruks' brutality in battle and in his mind's eye saw them tearing him apart without mercy. Nausea rose in him again and he tore away his eyes from the Enemy and turned them instead towards the grey swirling heavens. Then he frowned in confusion. For the heavens were no longer their normal grey colour. In fact, they were a very strange colour indeed. Green?

Loud shouts and calls of horror and surprise washed over him and Aragorn tore his eyes away from the green tinged sky, wondering idly whether he was concussed from his fall. Unfortunately, he could see nothing through the Uruk-hai massed around him. Only the leathery black bodies and legs of his would-be killers filled his vision.

Suddenly the Uruk Ringbearer's yellow eyes widened in shock and he pitched forward, landing almost on top of Aragorn, the Ring still clutched tightly in his hand, and finally Aragorn saw the reason for the all ruckus.

**OIOI**

The Men had no idea what they were facing. The commanders had been briefed by Aragorn and Jecha about this and yet they were still struck immobile by what was heading towards them. A wave of green haze, almost like a billow of fast-moving smoke, impossibly huge and dense, was sweeping over Osgiliath and across Pelennor towards where the battle raged. Aragorn knew immediately what was happening though and he could have cried with relief.

The Dead had come to battle.

Traitors twice over they may have been branded by Men but Aragorn had never been so happy to see anyone in all his life. The Dead Army from Dunharrow, come to fulfil their promise to the rightful King of Men, swept over the Enemy, some riding phantom horses but many more without steeds, although they moved as one all the same, never once touching upon the ground, striking the Enemy dead immediately at will, cutting great swathes through the Enemy masses. The Orcs, Goblins, Haradhrim, Easterlings, Uruk-hai, even the remaining Mumakil, fell to the ground, as though they had been simply robbed of their life by a mere touch of Death. No mark appeared on their bodies. No more Orc blood was spilled upon the Pelennor. They simply fell. No enemy could withstand the savage, elemental power of the Ghosts from the Mountains. Only the allies of the Light, somehow identifiable to the Dead, remained standing, suddenly useless in the battle they had fought hard in for days now and trying to work through what they were seeing, for it was not obvious to any of them what this phenomenon was.

The Dead Army did not look as an army at all but rather as a writhing billow of green smoke, interspersed with the occasional glimmer of a Human form bearing a trailing banner or sword or axe, haunting the great battlefield and striking fear into even those hearts that were bred and determined to fear nothing. They were far less substantial in battle than when Aragorn had treated with them deep inside the Dimholt many months ago. Perhaps it served them better, or maybe they simply didn't want to expend unnecessary energies on making themselves appear almost corporeal for the benefit of those who would never again draw breath to question it.

Human-looking or not, their sudden presence on the fields of Gondor immediately changed the course of the battle in favour of the United Men. The Orcs tried to flee from this terrible threat to their ranks but there was no way even the fastest among them could outrun this army. They were cut down at even the slightest touch of ghostly hand or weaponry, falling to the ground dead without time even to scream.

With each Shadow death claimed, the Dead Army seemed to swell in size, almost as though it were consuming additional energy through the blackened souls of the murdered. As they proceeded across the field, growing ever closer to the gleaming White City of Men, the Dead Army began to spread further; green tendrils doggedly seeking out those who dared to run from the damnation they had earned. It did not stretch them though. In fact, they grew ever bolder and bigger. Even as Aragorn watched with wide eyes, shining with wonder despite having witnessed this preternatural miracle once before beneath the Mountain of the Dead, tall, opalescent banners rose from the cloud of eerily illuminated swirling green, symbols of men striding into battle. The banners of the King flew again on the Pelennor.

Aragorn climbed to his feet as the last of the cold green cloud passed by him, moving ever onwards, determined to take out every last ally of the Shadow left standing. A lump of emotion had formed in his throat and he swallowed it back. He had not been betrayed as he had feared. The forsaken had come at the very last minute to save the day.

For a while longer, Aragorn stared, watching as a tendril of the cloud climbed the white walls of the city, apparently intent on checking within the city as well to be certain of complete extermination of the Shadow in Gondor. But his attention was soon drawn away from the scene unfolding before his eyes. Bending down, he picked through the Uruk carcasses and found their self-proclaimed leader. Still clutched in the curled hand was the Ring of Power.

Aragorn picked up the gold band with a exhalation of pure relief. He rubbed his thumb over the smooth metal ring and then put it back in his pocket where it would remain safe and hidden.

There was much yet to do. Many had lost their lives. Many more would have sustained injuries. They all needed to be organised. Aragorn wandered away from the pile of dead Uruks, looking from face to face as he passed the Men. Most eyes were wide and firmly fixed on the Green Army so Aragorn did not disturb them. Every face was filthy, covered with grime and blood. Aragorn must have passed by thirty people and not one of them was uninjured. All sustained some hurt, whether minor or more major. The healers would have their work cut out for them.

Stepping over bodies, Aragorn stooped to snatch up a swatch of black cloth. A banner of Gondor bearing the symbols of that country. Not many were still flying. A few Men carried them still, like a lifeline, a reminder of the reason they had sacrificed so much.

More than a few Men littered the ground now. Human bodies mixed in with the corpses of the Enemy, barely distinguishable in some cases. They were beyond aid and Aragorn felt a pang of terrible guilt for the part he had played in their deaths.

The field had fallen eerily quiet. But for the odd cry of pain or distress, not a sound was uttered. Everyone was entranced with what they were seeing. It was beyond understanding and all they could do was stare at their ghostly saviours.

But, Aragorn knew there was much to be done and it needed to be done quickly.

"Healers!" he yelled loudly and several people startled around him, not expecting the sharp noise through the deep quiet. "Healers, to me!"

Slowly, at this command, people started moving. Healers had been forced out to fight along with everyone else this time around and they started to move slowly, as though in a trace, towards where Aragorn stood holding aloft the flag of Gondor. Shouts went up, carrying the message all around the field to the others.

"Commanders, to me!" Aragorn added as people started gathering around him, although he was fairly confident that they would already be coming together in order to get things sorted out. Aragorn suddenly realised that he had no idea who remained alive. Had Eomer made it? Or Jecha, Janor, Faramir? Legolas?

He pushed that dark thought from his mind immediately. He couldn't afford to dwell on that right now.

Forcing himself to concentrate on the living, Aragorn focused himself on the healers gathered around him. They all looked rather worse for wear themselves, weary and bloodied.

"There is much healing to be done here tonight. I trust that you are all up for the task," he said, his voice hoarse from lack of water and a lot of shouting. "Valon?" He recognised the healer amongst them and recognised him also to be the most senior. "Take charge. Organise your people. There are many injured. Triage the worst cases first. Those you cannot save, take every resource you have available to make their passing comfortable. We will put out what remains of the fire barriers and take everyone inside the city. The soldiers will bring people into you. Inside, you have water and supplies and make use of those who could not fight here."

The healer nodded vaguely, as if he was only half listening to what Aragorn was saying to him, but then turned his face towards the king. "Yes, I understand, my Lord." He turned then to the other healers around him, appraising them quickly. "Get the fires out and the gates open. We will go ahead and prepare. We must treat the injuries amongst ourselves whilst you retrieve the soldiers. Healers are your most valuable commodity right now."

Aragorn nodded his understanding. "Go." He looked up as they dispersed, going towards the city slowly, still obviously stunned by what was going on around them. The commanders, some of them at least, now stood before him. Faramir, Eomer and Janor. There was no sign of Jecha as of yet. Nor was there any sign of Legolas. They all looked rather worse for wear, just like everyone else, although there was no sign of potentially fatal injury to any of them. "Faramir? Go ahead and get those fires out."

"I heard the command, Your Majesty," Faramir said without pause and turned away, motioning to his lieutenant to give out the orders.

Momentarily stunned by Faramir's rather reverential address towards him, Aragorn scanned the faces of the others. Eomer had several gashes to his face, which was crusted with blood. Janor looked worse. He was cradling his right arm and favouring his right leg but he still remained standing. What other injuries they bore, Aragorn did not know.

"All right, now I believe you about the Dead Army," smiled Eomer, his teeth impossibly white against the black filth covering his face.

Aragorn couldn't help but laugh in return. "Only now?"

"What would you have us do?" asked Janor a little wearily.

"You need to get yourself into the city and get those wounds seen to." Ignoring the protest already forming from the Ranger, Aragorn turned to Eomer. "You still standing?"

"Just about."

"Good. Gather as many of your Rohirrim as you can find and get them searching the field for the wounded. Anyone who can walk will have to work."

"Got it."

"Eomer," Aragorn called him back as he went to walk away, a hint of worry entering his voice even though he did not will it, "have you seen Legolas anywhere?"

"No. Don't worry; he's probably dishing out orders of his own somewhere out there. He'll find you eventually."

"Right."

There was no time to dwell on his guardian's whereabouts just then. He would have to do as he had ordered the others to do. No doubt in that process he would find his guardian somewhere amongst the warriors. He just prayed that it wasn't among the fallen.

**OIOI**

Her head pounded mercilessly. And yet it seemed quiet now. But that didn't make any sense. They were at war. On the battlefield. How could things possibly have turned so quiet? Had she been unconscious for that long? It didn't seem like a very long time. But then, how could she really judge? Had the battle been won at last? If so, who had won? Had Men emerged victorious? Given the unearthly silence, that seemed unlikely. They would be celebrating victory, surely, if they had won. The headache made her memory infuriatingly vague. She couldn't recall how she had come to be knocked out. A tingle of fear, an echo of the terror she had endured rippled through her and she shuddered. This proved a painful mistake. Her whole body lit up with agonising pain and she cried out loud. All thought of the circumstances of Gondor left her as she was consumed. It felt like she was on burning, on fire. Was she actually being burned alive? No, there was no smell of smoke. Just a strange, green haze obscuring her blurry vision. Green was not the colour of fire; her confused mind could come up with that logic at least. What then could have this effect on a Human body? Something terrible, doubtless.

For a long time – or it felt like a long time, at least – Eowyn lay panting through the pain, praying for it to recede to a more bearable level. By the time it ebbed away a little, she was left breathless and exhausted once more.

Still curious about what was happening around her, Eowyn tried to lift her head, slowly. It throbbed painfully and she immediately lowered it again and went completely still, not willing to risk being consumed by the horrific pain again. If they had lost this battle and were overrun with Orcs then staying silent was the best way to remain overlooked until the danger passed. She did not wish to attract the attention of the Orcs – or something worse.

Worse…?

A memory, foggy and incomplete filled her fuzzy mind. Something dark. Impossibly dark. And then pain. The same pain that threatened to erupt at any moment again if she tested it. What could have caused such agony? And for it to linger so… Eowyn shook her head gently, as if that simple action might clear her memory further. It did not.

However, after a seemingly endless silence, suddenly there were sounds. Crying? Yes, people were crying. Men? Then it grew, as though the first to break the silence had also broken the dam for all the others to join in. Not the voices of the Orcs, Eowyn reasoned. She could pick out words of Westron but didn't recognise any of the voices, they were too distant and mingled together.

Thinking that perhaps now would be a good time to attract some attention, she raised her head again, biting down on her lip at the exertion and the threat of pain that this time didn't explode quite so violently over her. Maybe it wasn't as bad as she'd initially thought it to be.

She blinked a couple of times quickly to clear her vision. The strange green haze still coloured the air but at least now she was looking at the field rather than up at the sky. She could pick out vague images of Men in the distance, shapes moving slowly. The source of the noises?

Opening her mouth, Eowyn tried to call for help but the words would not come. Her throat was too dry and it hurt too much for speech. She whimpered uselessly and rested her head back down in the mud.

Never one to simply take what was happening without action, Eowyn lifted her hands from where they rested on the muddy ground and laid them upon her flat stomach. She flinched automatically, although no great pain came with the action. No wound there. Gingerly, she moved her hands up over her chest all the way to her collarbone. Still no obvious injury. Why, then, the pain?

Perhaps, she reasoned once she had finished her self-assessment, she should try to rise.

It was almost impossible. Her body felt so stiff and unmanageable. But she persevered until she was positioned in an awkward way, propped up on shaking elbows. The pain assailed her again though and she collapsed back, as before lying still until it had passed. White light covered her eyes followed by blackness.

When she opened her eyes, as the pain had passed over her again, things had bizarrely changed. It was darker out. The grey sky was nearing black. The noise had grown also. It was very loud now. Many Men shouting out orders, despairing cries of pain and grief echoing from close by and far away. The whole kingdom seemed to be in mourning. And it was so cold. She was shivering as she had not been before. As she went to wrap her arms around herself though, the pain returned, emanating from her right arm and encasing her chest tightly making it hard to breathe. She fought it this time, unwilling to surrender.

She had been unconscious again, she realised with a jolt of fear. It was the only explanation for how dramatically things had changed. It was impossible to tell for how long exactly. And it didn't really matter, she supposed. What mattered was what had happened to her.

When she had woken this time, the truth had washed over her. She remembered now, how she had come to be injured and it explained the pain.

The Wraiths. They had attacked. Or one of them had attacked. She thought it was one. It had knocked her out, sent her and the Dwarf flying. She had woken to find Legolas, golden haired and magnificent, standing up against the black creature, so dark that it seemed a void in the world, fighting it. For a moment, she remembered being struck motionless. Great fear had passed over her as she watched Legolas duck from the blows rained down on him by the great creature. She felt it again now as she remembered. She did not know what had happened to Gimli, couldn't even recall checking to see if he was well. All she knew was that she had been consumed with the need to help. Shaking from her fear, she had crawled towards her fallen sword and staggered to her feet. No Orcs were nearby; they had been avoiding the Wraith. Perhaps they were scared too. Then she had seen Legolas fall, knocked down by the Wraith. He would have died if she stood idly by and did nothing. She could not abide that. How could she not help her beloved rescuer? Without him, she would certainly be dead. She owed him, she knew. So, she had done the first thing that had come to her mind, giving no thought to how foolish an endeavour it was. She had charged at the Wraith and thrust her sword, two-handed into the back of the creature, hoping to sever its spine – if it had one – and if not then at least it might provide a distraction for Legolas to regain his feet. But she had been thrown back by some invisible power, immense and ancient. Then she remembered nothing but a blast of cold air pushing her into the ground. And then the blackness of unconsciousness.

Shaking more now from fear and disbelief at what she had done than from the cold air swirling around her, Eowyn found that the first sound from her lips since she had confronted the Wraith was a sob. She didn't know why she cried. Fear, relief, confusion, grief? Whatever the cause, she cried until all energy had seeped from her and she was left feeling hollow and cold again.

What was this terrible cold? It was not natural. It spread up from her arm, seeping into her very blood it seemed. The arm that had struck down the Wraith? Legolas had said that when he had fought the Mouth of Sauron in Osgiliath it had felt strange. Was this the same? Or worse? Was she poisoned?

Eowyn had to confess to knowing nothing of the Nazgul. She didn't know their power, only that they had much of it. But who knew what the Dark Lord had created them into.

She was dying, she realised with a jolt.

How unfair. After everything. After all those long years filled with pain and terror in the company of the Orcs, separated from those she loved and locked beneath the terrible stone of the Deep. She had survived the isolation, the terror, the tortures they had subjected her to. Not many could attest to such an accomplishment. She had been reunited with her beloved brother when all looked hopeless, found friends and gone to war. And now, all that was gone. Taken from her because of her own stupidity.

Eomer would be furious.

The thought came so suddenly upon her that it made her laugh. Here, on the battlefield, cold and alone, she laughed, chuckling away to herself. She was dying. She had taken on a Wraith of Mordor and all she was concerned about was her brother's anger? It was absurd. She threw her head back and laughed and laughed, even when the pain became unbearable.

Had she lost her sanity at some point during the previous day? Had the Wraith stolen that from her as well? That thought made her laugh all the harder. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, still shivering horribly. Tears poured from her eyes, leaking down her face and joining the blood and mud in the soil.

"Here. There's someone over here," a voice called close by but Eowyn knew that it wasn't referring to her. She was all alone here. Alone to die; away from those she loved.

Sobering somewhat, her laughter died and she fell quiet, emotionally spent. With hitched breaths, she calmed herself.

It had gotten dark. Very dark. She could see an orange glow from the corner of her eye, replacing the curious green; the torches of Minas Tirith burning brightly, bold and comforting to those who had won the battle. She hated the darkness. She had seen too much of it down in the dungeons of Helm's Deep. How she longed to die bathed in light, even the false light provided by torches would have been preferable to this darkness. Tears of grief flowed now, although she didn't think she had much more left in her.

Eowyn let her eyes drift shut, breathing as steadily as she could. As she recalled, she was far out from Minas Tirith, on the very edge of where the battle had raged. If they were searching for survivors, it would take them hours to find her. Too long. She could just go to sleep. The darkness was calling even now. It was so inviting. Not at all like the blackness of the night surrounding her physical body. If she concentrated hard enough, she was sure that she could just slip right into it. Surely that would be better than lingering here alone until her body finally gave up the fight.

Sighing deeply, she moved her head to get as comfortable as she could. No point in being uncomfortable in her last moments.

Fingers were pressed to her throat then and she startled at the touch. Or at least her mind startled. She was fairly sure that her body remained unresponsive. The fingers were warm, solid and confident. They searched for a moment then came to a halt and remained that way for a few seconds. Checking. Someone checking for a pulse. Vaguely, Eowyn wondered whether they felt anything. She could feel her heart beating laboriously in her chest.

"This one's alive," a voice Eowyn didn't recognise called, directed away from her. To a colleague maybe. Healers?

"Alive? After all this time?"

What was he talking about? It had been daytime when she had fought the Wraith and it was night-time now. That wasn't so long.

"She has a pulse. Barely but it is there," insisted the first voice despite the disbelief of his colleague.

"Get her back to the city. Can you carry her?"

"Better you do it. I might be needed out here."

Apparently, the second voice agreed with this as Eowyn suddenly felt herself being lifted off the ground and up into strong arms, her body pressed against cold armour.

"Are you sure she's alive? She's frozen."

"She has a pulse," replied the one Eowyn supposed was a healer as if that was a good enough reason to bear her from Pelennor and back to the city.

"For how long?" murmured the man holding her and she was sure that had she not been pressed so close to him she would not have heard.

"Go on. Get her to the healers in the city. I'll carry on this way, pick up another soldier along the way."

"Right," the soldier said aloud. And then, in a quieter voice, added, "You leave the meat with me and look for the ones you can save."

A Gondorian man, without a doubt, Eowyn realised as she felt herself carried away from her resting place. By now, if he had bothered to look, one of the Rohirrim would have recognised her. She chuckled again under her breath and felt the man carrying her halt for a brief second.

"You all right there?"

She could not respond but did ponder silently upon the absurdity of the question.

Then she was hefted up as the man got a better grip on her. They carried on, faster before, perhaps because the soldier had come around to the possibility that she was not yet completely beyond saving. Her head flopped over his arm, her injured arm dangling and swinging against his armoured waist and leather-clad leg. It hurt but she couldn't speak to complain.

At least she was moving back towards the light of Minas Tirith.

**To Be Continued…**


	71. The Missing, The Fallen

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: My usual thanks go to all those who have left a review. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Apologies that it took longer than usual. I have only going to see The Hobbit at the cinema as an excuse!**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 71 **

**The Missing, The Fallen**

Aragorn was exhausted. Dead on his feet as a matter of fact following all that had happened upon the Pelennor and within the White City. But he couldn't bring himself to find rest. Not yet. There was too much to do and he was bound by duty to remain where he was needed.

Men hurried everywhere, pushing aside their own weariness and injury to concentrate on helping their fallen comrades. No Man fallen in defence of the city would be left behind, condemned to rot out on Pelennor; Faramir had been entirely emphatic about that. They would be given all honour for their sacrifice, a decree with which Aragorn heartily agreed. Every Man who had taken up arms in the effort to reclaim the White City deserved to be honoured.

Coming across yet another tragic Human casualty of the battle, Aragorn fell into a crouch, lifted the soldier's bottom half from where it had become partially sunken into the sludge left behind by many hundreds of feet churning already wet soil into mush, and held tight to the limp legs whilst a Gondorian soldier hefted up the head-end of the body, arms locked under the armpits of the unfortunate soul. It was a movement both men had practiced many times already and yet it was none the grimmer for their familiarity.

"Aragorn! Aragorn."

The young man looked around at the calling of his name and found Gimli, the Dwarf, hurrying towards him. The stout creature had lost his helmet, either in the battle or else he had discarded it himself when the fighting had ended, and blood was caking his forehead and cheek, blending into the light brown of his impressive beard. Aragorn wondered whether he had at some point received a head-wound in battle. And yet, he still stood tall, unyielding despite his haggard appearance, axe still gripped in his hand as though ready to again plunge into battle should he receive the call. Aragorn admired his stamina and wished that he could look to others as Gimli did now.

The Dwarf hustled towards Aragorn, weaving deftly around the working Men on the field to reach the king. His feet slipped occasionally but he stomped determinedly through the mud as if sheer force could prevent him from falling. It worked. Never once did he lose his footing entirely.

"Aragorn," he breathed when he came to a somewhat unsteady halt before the man. He paused for a moment, swallowing and breathing deeply, and Aragorn thought that he had run a long way specifically to find the king and found himself suddenly uneasy. The Dwarf was on a mission. "My father, I cannot find him. Have you seen him anywhere on the field? I have been asking everyone and no one knows a thing. You are my last hope."

"I am sorry, my friend, but I have not seen any sign of him."

Many people had asked him questions similar to Gimli's this day. They searched for family or friends or comrades in arms and looked to their new king for answers. But most of the time Aragorn could only answer as he had done Gimli; with apology. Some, he had directed to Minas Tirith itself for within the white walls the healers were treating many of the injured and he instructed Gimli now to do the same.

Gimli's face dropped. He had been expecting his noble father to be loitering somewhere around the helpers, maybe hacking up the giant Mumakil corpses to get at the fallen underneath. Gloin was a proud being; he would not sit idly by whilst there was work to be done for the salvation of others and he would not suffer being sent away to the city whilst there was work to be done. At least, that was what Gimli had been telling himself as some small comfort for the past two hours. He had known that Gloin must be somewhere helping the Humans clear the field. No matter how much he wanted to believe though, after so long his surety had turned to concern and his frantic search had taken him already into the healing halls and now brought him to the king himself. The physicians had assured him that no one matching Gloin's description had been brought in and Gimli trusted their word because a Dwarf would have been easily distinguishable amongst the man Humans. And now it seemed that Aragorn had no idea either.

Collecting himself, Gimli squared his shoulders. He would not give in yet. There was still hope. "If you see him, will you find me?"

Aragorn nodded dumbly. He knew what Gimli was really asking: If Gloin was found dead, he wanted to know as soon as possible. Not knowing was worse than knowing even the worst of truths. Maybe the Dwarf already knew in his heart the fate of his father but that didn't mean he would simply accept it without a fight. Still, Aragorn hoped that his stout friend would find a good ending to this battle. So many others had not.

The Dwarf walked away, obviously crestfallen, yet determined to continue his search even if it might be in vain. The truth was that Aragorn longed to join him. He wanted to be out there searching for the one lost to him. No one had seen any sign of Legolas since the end of the battle and the worry that had initially prickled at Aragorn's senses was beginning to fester in the pit of his stomach so it was becoming harder and harder to ignore. He had a bad feeling and he couldn't rid himself of it no matter how much he rationalised.

So he decided to pay it no heed, to push that festering fear to the back of his mind with sheer force of will. His presence was required on the field, helping with the retrieval of the dead; that he knew for certain. He could not forsake his men for his own personal comfort. No matter how much he wanted to, he could not abandon his duty as king to go off in search of his guardian. Besides, as several people had already insisted, Legolas was probably doing the same thing as him on the other side of the field. Pelennor was a big place and the carnage was immense.

Aragorn laid the man he was helping to carry down on the ground gently, at the end of a long line of the dead. He did not look at the number, did not try to count. He could not bring himself to do so. Not yet. Not when the battle was still so fresh.

"Aragorn." Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned to find Eomer, not looking at him but staring out onto the Plain. Aragorn followed the Rohan man's gaze towards the wall of green haze that had settled not far away from them, shimmering and writhing above the ground. They had been coming together again in the past hour or so, coalescing, gathering before the King of Gondor to whom their oath was pledged. Aragorn had ignored them thus far, unwilling to pay them any attention whilst there was cleaning up to do on the field but he sensed that they were growing impatient. "They're just standing there. Waiting, I think."

Long had these traitors been waiting for some kind of absolution and they were eager to be granted what Aragorn had promised beneath the mountain. The king sighed. He could ignore this onerous duty no longer. Reluctantly, he stepped over to where the Dead Army gathered in uneven clusters before him, swathed in their eerie green haze, bound yet by duty and unwilling to go unheeded any longer. Aragorn bowed his head once in acknowledgement of their presence. Closer, he could feel the first thrills of dissent amongst them. They would be a formidable force should they be offended.

"Our task here is done," the King of the Dead spoke, his words wispy, barely audible on the breeze and yet still full of power. He looked directly at Aragorn, sword raised, daring him, challenging. Anduril might have been able to fend off the blows of the ghostly weapon but Aragorn did not doubt that this king could have bested him if it came down to a fight. It was not a pleasant thought. "Now, fulfil your end of the bargain, Gondor King."

A command, not a request.

Aragorn remembered all too well his promise to release the army from their living death under the mountain. He recalled with absolute clarity the details of their bargain. They would come to Gondor's aid against the might of the Shadow and they would be released from their damnation. And yet Aragorn hesitated.

"Many died before you joined the Free Peoples in battle as you vowed," he stated bluntly, coming closer still to them, fingers brushing against the cool hilt of Anduril resting at his side. "You broke your oath, cursed one." There was hardness to his voice and he realised that he was angry with them for their betrayal. The Dead had not come as promised. They had waited until the last minute to join the conflict, until many of Gondor's forces were depleted, until it was almost too late.

The King of the Dead bristled at this accusation, glowing darker green than Aragorn had ever seen before and emitting a chill that made the Men close by shiver. Aragorn saw the mouths of his army open as if in protest although he could hear no words actually spoken. The King of the Dead raised his ghostly head in defiance and said, "The army of the Shadow is destroyed as we swore it would be. Now release us."

"You failed to keep your word," insisted the Human king again. "Why should I hold to mine?"

Tension filled the field; thick, palpable in the air for all to feel. Men stopped in their myriad grisly tasks to stare at what was happening before them. Hours ago, the people had given up trying to make any sense of this ghostly army's existence and decided to merely be grateful for the intervention when at last it had come, but they listened closely now to what was being said, intrigued once more by this interaction between the mystical and their king.

"Release us," hissed the Dead king, his own hand tightening on his sword. Behind him, his army readied themselves, became more substantial than before and all the more threatening because of it. They all brandished weapons, although all about knew that they had no need for blades or arrows.

"You must not, Aragorn," counselled Eomer softly from beside the King. His awed eyes shone with reflected ghostly light, unable to drift from the incredible supernatural sight spread before him. Never had such a thing been heard of by the Men of Rohan – and he doubted that when tales of this day were told, it would be entirely believed by their ancestors. "We may yet have use for this great army in our war."

Murmurs of agreement went up from the living crowd, although Aragorn noted that none was brave enough to come forward and say that directly to the face of the King of the Dead.

"Do not test me, boy," warned the king in a low voice. His form seemed to grow in size, until he stood taller than Aragorn and the green of his wavering body deepened further still until he looked almost Human himself.

For a long moment of tense silence, Aragorn considered. The Dead had indeed betrayed him. They had gone against their word. They had not come at the start of battle to fight alongside the Men of Gondor as they had promised and they had left many innocents to be killed, uncaring for the loss of their distant kin. But Aragorn did not think it was through cowardice this time, nor malice that they did so. They simply did not care about the armies of Men. They knew that so long as they intervened at some point, even toward the end of the battle, then Aragorn, as he had sworn deep inside the Dimholt, would be forced to grant them their freedom for they recognised him as a man of his word. This ambivalence towards the fate of Gondor and its people angered Aragorn. And yet, he found that he was also grateful to them. They had saved the race of Men at the last. Without them, the armies of United Gondor would have fallen entirely to the Shadow and there would be nothing left.

"I am not like you, Traitor," Aragorn finally addressed the King of the Dead, his decision made. "I will not break my word to you; although in my mind you deserve to linger in this perpetual state of nothing until the ending of the world." The King of the Dead did not look particularly worried at this remark. He knew already what Aragorn would say. Whatever honour the King of the Dead lacked, Aragorn, King of Men on Arda, more than made up for. "Consider your oaths fulfilled. Go now and be free with the thanks of all Free Men."

The King's face suddenly softened, and he seemed to morph into a completely different person before the eyes of those watching. It was a remarkable change. Relief swept over the Dead Army like a wave, the atmosphere noticeably changing from tension to immense gratitude in the blink of an eye. It seemed that they had feared that Aragorn would not release them. A great sigh came from the entire army and then they began to fade on the wind, being swept away to wherever peace awaited them.

Aragorn watched as their green bodies and weapons faded from sight and braced himself as the unnatural wind lashed at him. He did not know yet whether he would in the future regret his decision of clemency. But in his heart he knew this to be the right thing to do. After all, if he went back on his word, was he not as bad as the King of the Dead himself?

Once all trace of the Dead Army had left the battlefield and the air was its natural grey colour again, things started moving. Yes, what had happened was astonishing and would be the talk of many for a long time yet, but right then there were more earthly things to be worrying about and the Men of Gondor had much to do.

"That was a mistake, Aragorn." Eomer remained at the king's side, looking grimly in the spot where just seconds ago had stood a vast and unbeatable army capable of overwhelming any enemy of Men yet residing in Middle Earth. "They could have been invaluable in taking control of Mordor."

Aragorn shook his head thoughtfully, turning to the Rohan man at last. "No. They would not have fought for the possession of Mordor. They owed a debt to defend Gondor alone. That debt has been paid. They would not have fought for us."

"They would have fought for the King of Gondor. You controlled them, Aragorn. Such a weapon and you let it slip away."

"I persuaded them. There is much difference. Besides, you saw them; in their heart of hearts, they were traitors."

"Even at the end," agreed Eomer grimly, at last coming around to Aragorn's way of thinking. "Maybe you are right." He clapped his hand against Aragorn's shoulder by way of apology. Then he decided, "You made the best decision possible, Aragorn. It was not one I should have liked to make. And I suppose they did save our hides in the end. We must be thankful for that. Things could have been so much worse had they forsaken us entirely."

"Worse." Aragorn looked around the field, at the mourning people, at the rising smoke and the stench of death and found it hard to believe that any outcome could possibly have been worse. And yet, he knew that Eomer was correct. The armies of Shadow could have slaughtered every man, woman and child in Gondor had the Army of the Dead not come to aid them. That fate did not bear considering.

"I remember when we reclaimed Helm's Deep the men celebrated," Eomer said softly, regretfully, his eyes roving as Aragorn's did over the chaos. "There is nothing to celebrate here." Soft green eyes scanned upwards the white city, standing slightly hazy but undeniably impressive through the smoke. "You have to ask yourself if it was really worth it."

A pang of regret tugged at Aragorn's heart. He had been asking himself that very question ever since they had first stepped out of Osgiliath. Was owning this lump of white rock really worth all the death and hurt that had resulted from this battle? Right then, it seemed a total waste and one he regretted already. What he would feel later when this battle dimmed in his memory and the Shadow had fallen to the forces of Light, Aragorn was unsure. But for now, it tortured him, this price that had been paid by innocent Men he had commanded to die for him.

Before Aragorn had to struggle to find something to say to the man at his side, someone hurried towards them, recognisable as a healer from Rohan by his blonde hair and the blood that stained his clothing and reddened his hands.

"Lord Eomer. It's your sister."

Nothing more needed to be said. Eomer abandoned his impromptu conference with Aragorn and raced towards the city, outpacing the breathless healer easily, dodging around people, ignoring all the aggravated looks he received at his bullish methods of gaining a few precious seconds. Aragorn was only a couple of steps behind him, following the path he created through the people. He was as worried about Eowyn as Eomer was. He had seen no sign of her, although he recalled that Eomer had ordered her to remain near the city walls. They had become friends in the time they had known each other and Aragorn didn't think he could stand one of his friends to have fallen in this battle of his own making.

They hurried through the busy corridors towards where they had earlier ordered Faramir set up the medical wing on the First Level. The hall itself was filled almost to capacity with the wounded and the healers trying to help them. Healing stations had been set up along the corridors, triaging those coming in to the city to seek medical attention in an attempt to lessen the numbers within. With so many casualties, Faramir had had to prioritise and this seemed the most efficient way of doing it.

Eomer ran past the triage stations. A couple of healers tried to halt him but he ignored all attempts to bar his way. He and Aragorn emerged into the main hall to find many men and women lying on the ground, some covered in blankets to hide the fact that the dead were lying amongst the living. Wails of pain and despair filled the hall, almost unbearably joining together to become a symphony of misery, an echo of what Aragorn had heard out on the Pelennor. Wounds ranged from minor cuts, which were being treated by physicians around the walls of the hall, to serious potentially fatal injury. Operations on the worst cases were being performed in an adjoining room, away from the eyes of the others who might be offended by the bloody necessities.

Ignoring all of these ailing people, Eomer snagged a healer by the arm and demanded to know Eowyn's whereabouts. The healer's eyes scanned the room briefly then she pointed to the far corner.

There Eowyn lay on the floor, another healer crouching at her side, seeming to be doing nothing at more to help her than holding her hand. As they drew nearer, Aragorn saw that the blonde woman was completely still where she laid. He could not even see her chest rising and falling. Her skin was deathly pale and her eyes shut to the horror surrounding her. She looked, for all the world, as if the healers were too late.

However, Eowyn was not lost to them. Not yet.

"They found her right on the outskirts of the field during a cursory patrol, brought her back here," explained the healer, risking taking his eyes off his patient to glance at Eomer.

Eomer knelt down beside his sister, taking her free hand so gently, as though afraid that the pale skin might break if he applied too much pressure. "What happened to her?"

"We cannot tell, sir."

"What do you mean you cannot tell?!"

"There does not appear to be any reason behind this illness. It is almost as though…the life is being drained out of her, sir. We do not know what could be the cause of such a thing. She has sustained no wounds that we can see that could account for her current state."

Passing his hand over his sister's sweat-beaded brow, Eomer sighed. "What happened here, sister? Tell me so that I may help."

His plea went unheeded. Eowyn remained unconscious.

"I'm not sure what more we can do," said the healer quietly, regretfully. He had probably uttered the same words several times already today thought Aragorn, and meant each of them just as intently as he did now.

"She's going to die?" Eomer's voice was so small that Aragorn could barely hear it.

"If we can't discover the cause of this then…yes. I fear she might."

Aragorn felt his heart plunge. When he had heard that Eowyn was in the healer's wing, he had hoped that the woman had received a minor injury and gone to seek help. But this was worse. So much worse. And what could they do if no one even knew what ailed her?

"I'm sorry," the king uttered to Eomer but the Rohan man didn't seem to hear his sympathies. Feeling utterly useless once more, Aragorn turned away, trying not to look too closely at the individuals lying in the hall. It was too much for him to bear right then. He could not stand to think that many would blame him for this. And he was to blame, he told himself as he walked more sedately amongst them now. It had been his decision that had brought them to Minas Tirith and it had been his strategy that had led them to hurt. How, Aragorn thought despairingly, could he live with such knowledge? How could he ever look any of them in the eye again?

So, he left Eomer with his sister and returned through the crowds out onto the Pelennor Fields once again. He spent a little time helping with the dead, this time taking up Orcs as well and piling them none-too-gently away from the lines of the Men for burning later. There was no ceremony in this unfavourable task. Orcs and Uruks were dumped carelessly together in ever-larger piles. It was not a pleasant job but Aragorn found some satisfaction every time he threw on another of the ugly creatures of Sauron. Even this job did not distract him though. Visiting the healing hall had alerted Aragorn once more to the absence of his guardian. He still had not seen Legolas, nor heard anyone mention him and the Elf had not been in the healing hall as Aragorn had suspected him to be. That nagging worry claimed him once again but this time it could not be ignored as before. Eowyn had fallen in battle. Legolas might have also.

He turned away from his task and looked around, out over the Pelennor. There were fewer men about now. It was late afternoon and most of his people had gone inside to rest and recover themselves. No tell-tale flash of gold caught Aragorn's eye. No Legolas anywhere in sight.

Surely had someone seen the Elf upon the field then it would have been reported to him by now. Someone would have told him. He had asked enough people about his guardian's whereabouts since the ending of the battle. The lack of information suggested that no one had seen Legolas yet and that was deeply worrying for the man.

If Legolas was indeed well after the battle, Aragorn thought, would he not have come looking for his ward? That protective side of Legolas, the one he so often fought back against in his youth, should have kicked in by now. Of course, Legolas would have seen to whatever needed doing in whatever place he had been working in. But eventually Aragorn knew that he would have needed reassurance that his ward was unharmed. Given the number of casualties in this battle, Legolas would also have wanted to assure his ward that he was well.

All this convinced Aragorn that all was not well. Something was very wrong.

Deciding that he could no longer ignore his concerns, Aragorn walked away from the team working on the dead, determined to find his guardian. If he found Legolas working amongst the others then he could go back to work in the knowledge that his mentor was safe. And if not- Well, he didn't want to think about that.

He worked methodically, eyes to the ground the whole way as he traced a path away from the White City, glancing up every minute or so in case Legolas was wandering around the field. Mostly, Aragorn saw only Orcs and Uruk-hai. The further away from the city he went the more Men there were. Not allies to the Light but Haradhrim and Easterlings, easily recognisable due to their unique garb and war-painted faces. He ignored them. He didn't care about how many of their people had perished. They had chosen the side of Darkness and suffered the consequences. Many he saw had injuries obviously sustained by weaponry but some also had broken necks or spines, as though they had fallen from great heights and Aragorn's mind went to the Mumakil that had fallen. Had Legolas himself thrown these Men down to their deaths? Hope soared in his heart. Legolas had been fighting the Mumakil and the Haradhrim, surely then he would be around this area somewhere. And yet, Aragorn could find no sign of him. His eyes flicked from the ground and upwards again, searching constantly.

Aragorn didn't know how long he searched the ever-quieting field. He recognised the change in light as the day drew to a close. Many more people had gone inside now, either to rest or to get medical attention for the more minor wounds they had sustained, more confident that they could find a healer now that the healing halls had calmed down somewhat. Some remained searching through the dead for comrades, although hope of finding any still alive was growing slimmer by the hour and everyone knew it.

Every person Aragorn passed, he asked of Legolas. No one had seen the Elf anywhere, either on the field or within the city walls. With every negative answer he received, his heart plummeted a little further. He knew, even though he hated to admit it to himself, that the longer Legolas remained missing the less chance there was of him being alive when he was found. And yet, he continued onwards, unwilling to give up hope. Legolas would not give up on him. Never. So Aragorn would not admit defeat either. He told himself, over the sound of that nagging pessimistic voice in his head, that Legolas would be fine, that there was some rational explanation for his disappearance, that he was an Elf who could survive far greater hardship than any Human. That had to count for something.

"Aragorn!"

The man turned to the sound of a familiar voice, but he already knew it was not the one he was hoping to hear. "Not now, Janor."

The Ranger hurried over to him, stepping around Orc carcasses still with a slight limp despite his clearly having been seen by the physicians. Aragorn saw that his left hand was heavily bandaged, blood beginning to seep through. He was pale, obviously still in considerable pain and looked a little shaky as he struggled to regain his breath after the run. The man's visit to the healers would have been brief, Aragorn knew, but such an injury would surely need looking at further. For the moment, though, he looked like he was on a mission and a missing limb was not going to stop him. "I just thought you would want to know that Jecha showed up in the city a while ago. He is fine. As is his companion."

Aragorn's heart leapt and suddenly his attention was entirely on the Ranger. "Was Legolas with him?" he asked hopefully.

Janor's brow wrinkled in a frown. "You haven't found him yet?"

It answered Aragorn's question. Swallowing back bitter disappointment and stubbornly blinking back tears before Janor noticed, he turned back to the task at hand. "No, I haven't found him. He's nowhere. No one has seen him. I can't find him, Janor! And he should be easy to find. He would be searching for me if he could, I know he would. Something is wrong."

"Maybe in circling the field you're simply missing one another."

"No. He's nowhere!"

Janor's eyes scanned the field, squinting in the poor light. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"Not since the second attack."

"Oh. Well, don't worry. I'll get some people together and we'll look for him together."

Aragorn shook his head despairingly, trying desperately to keep his hopes up in face of all the doubt gathering in his mind. "He fell in battle. He must have done or we would have found each other by now."

"You don't know that for sure."

"I do. I would have seen him by now if he was standing, Janor."

"Maybe he is in the city somewhere helping with the clean-up. Maybe he saw you and, seeing that you were unharmed, went to help someone else."

"I don't think so."

The Ranger didn't know what to say. He knew how close Aragorn was to his guardian. That he couldn't find Legolas must have been maddening. Indeed, already Janor was worried, for it didn't seem like Legolas to be so thoughtless when it came to his ward. Aragorn was correct; after the battle, he would have gone in search of his ward, not hidden away where no one could find him. The prospect of Legolas lying out there amongst the dead was almost unbearable.

"I'll get some people together and help you look for him."

Before Aragorn could reply, Janor had run off to gather a search-party.

Within twenty minutes, several men had been gathered together and they joined Aragorn in checking the field for Legolas. Bracell, the Gondorian man under Jecha's command was with them, no doubt under coercion given his ambivalence toward Legolas and Aragorn himself. Jecha himself was nowhere about so Aragorn assumed that he remained within the city, perhaps receiving medical attention. Nor was his companion with the party but Aragorn had never imagined that he would be anywhere around. The rest of the party were made up of the Rangers, unsurprisingly. Ciaran looked almost as concerned as Aragorn for the boy had been close to Legolas after his father's demise. Janor had returned too despite the fact that Aragorn thought he should probably be in the city getting his wounds checked. Tarsem the scout and Kalub the Rangers' tracker had come out to look and Aragorn was somewhat disheartened to find that they were not at all irritated to have been dragged into the search as they would normally have been, which suggested to Aragorn that they were fearing the worst too and had enough decency between them to remain respectful. Veron, the now solitary twin was not there though but Aragorn didn't know whether he had fallen in battle or was simply occupied elsewhere. He had not yet received reports from anyone regarding how many or who had fallen and suddenly felt like perhaps that was something he should be interested in.

They formed a line and searched even more methodically than Aragorn had been able to do on his own. They split only when they came upon a downed Mumakil and they couldn't hold the ranks.

For an hour they found nothing at all. Not a sight nor sign of Legolas.

Then, as dusk was settling in, Kalub called out to the line and everyone came to a sudden halt, each one dreading what might have been found. Aragorn ran over to where the man was knelt on the muddy ground. But it was not Legolas who had been discovered. Aragorn couldn't decide whether to feel relieved at this or disappointed, so he shoved both warring emotions aside and concentrated on what had been found pressed into the dirt.

"Isn't this Legolas' knife?"

Swallowing back the bitter taste of fear, Aragorn nodded. "Yes. One of them." There it lay, partially covered in dirt and caked almost completely in blood, and yet still recognisable as Legolas', a white-handled knife bearing Elven runes along the length of the perfect, long blade. Its twin was nowhere to be seen. Nor was its owner.

"He must be somewhere nearby then," reasoned Janor hopefully.

Tarsem looked skywards pointedly and said, "It's getting dark. Soon it will be too dark to search. We should return to the city and…"

"No," interrupted Aragorn firmly, "I will not leave this field until I have found him."

"It won't be possible to find him in the night hours, Aragorn."

"I will look harder," the man insisted, unrelenting. That terrible dread had settled deeper into his heart now, becoming a part of him and he was beginning to fear that he would never shift it, like once it had set down root in his chest it would be with him forever more.

"You might not find him," the red-headed scout told him bluntly, saying aloud what the others didn't even dare to think. Aragorn physically recoiled at that point, staggering back a pace as if Tarsem had hit him with a flat plank of wood right across the face. "What then? Will you haunt the battlefield forever, searching?"

"How dare you say such a thing!" growled the young king, having composed himself somewhat. He took a threatening step towards Tarsem but Janor put out his arm to halt the king's progress, not wanting another fight on his hands.

"Tarsem, perhaps we should continue looking for a time," suggested the commander of the Rangers, trying to placate both parties.

"Fine. But what's the point really? We're looking for a body by now."

That comment should have sent Aragorn over the edge. He should have pummelled the scout into oblivion for such words. But he could not. He staggered again, away from the other Rangers for he could not bear to hear what he knew deep down to be the truth. Pale and trembling at the possibility of having lost his guardian, he walked slowly, backwards away from those he had once considered friends but now looked to him as strangers. He turned away from them. He couldn't look at them any longer. They looked…defeated. Shaking his head, he walked away, continuing on his path. He didn't hear anyone following him and tears pricked at his eyes. They had given up. He could picture their faces, the looks of sympathy for his continuing delusion.

The ground was blurry but Aragorn's concentration did not waver. He was alone now. The Rangers, he suspected had departed, deciding to leave him to his fruitless quest. Perhaps they had gone to seek out Eomer or Jecha to bring him back to the city. But Aragorn was determined that he would not return to his captured lump of meaningless stone until he found his guardian – not matter what state he was in.

Darkness came and as Tarsem had predicted, visibility was down to virtually nothing. Aragorn had to bend low to be able to see the ground. He supposed that he should have returned to the city to retrieve a torch to light his way but that would expend valuable time and he would not do that. So long as he could see the tell-tale flash of gold hair that he searched for, that was all that mattered, and even in the darkness, he was confident that he could spot Legolas amongst the black humps of Orc carcasses.

With the night came the cold. It was colder than Aragorn remembered it being for a long while. He shivered beneath his jacket, the heat of battle that had protected him before now gone. But he doggedly kept his head bowed and his eyes on the ground, for Legolas would surely be cold now too.

Despite his desperate need to find his guardian, Aragorn worked methodically, forcing himself not to cut corners. That would not do. But Pelennor was massive and there was much ground to cover. Alone, it would take the whole night. Not that Aragorn minded. If that was what it took, then so be it. His thoughts were not on his people encamped within Minas Tirith, although in the distance he could see the torchlight boldly casting an eerie orange glow on the ground below, but on only one.

So singularly focused was he on his task that Aragorn didn't hear heavy footsteps heading his way.

"Majesty."

"Jecha," Aragorn greeted without stopping or even glancing up.

"No luck?"

The question was so dismissive, like Aragorn had merely misplaced a favourite dagger and was searching the field for the innocuous object. Anger boiled within him, but he shoved it aside, squaring his jaw and continuing to search.

"Gimli might have a better idea of where to look," Jecha continued when he received nothing but icy silence from his king.

For the first time in hours, Aragorn raised his head, blinking in the darkness to find the Dwarf Gimli stood at Jecha's side, axe still in his hands, a fresh bandage now encircling his head where he had been injured. The stout being looked pale behind his long ginger beard, although Aragorn didn't think his pallor was entirely due to his injury. He recalled that Gimli had been searching for his father earlier. He wondered whether the younger Dwarf had found him not as he would wish him. He felt sympathy for the Dwarf's loss but there was something hard glinting in dark eyes, a defiance against grief, that made him hold his silence.

"Where?" Aragorn finally asked.

"On the other side of the field. That was where I last saw him."

Aragorn looked off in the opposite direction although it was impossible to see much in the darkness.

"Tell him," prompted Jecha, shoving gently at the Dwarf's arm as if Gimli were in some way reluctant.

"Legolas and I were taking out the Mumakil and their Haradhrim riders. One by one bringing them down. He would climb up whilst I…" Gimli cut himself off and cleared his throat noisily when Jecha nudged him again, urging him to get to the point. "Then we ran into Eowyn as Legolas was insisting that I go to the healers because I was hit." He ran grubby fingers over the rough bandage covering his forehead. "And then…it came."

"It?" asked Aragorn, even though he had a fairly good idea about what Gimli spoke.

"The Wraith. It knocked Eowyn and me aside as if we were nothing. I was knocked unconscious. But…when I awoke someone said that the Wraith had been slain."

"It was Eowyn," Jecha said. "She woke briefly earlier. Her speech was mostly garbled nonsense but the healers managed to piece together how she had been injured and deduced that it was she who had plunged her sword through the back of the Wraith that had fallen. A most brave thing to do; if not foolhardy. Legolas' name was mentioned also, although they could drag nothing more of use from her before she lost consciousness. The healers believe that some kind of poison has been administered and that is why she ails."

"Poison? So Legolas…?"

"We don't know yet," Jecha reassured and Aragorn felt relief that for the first time that night someone seemed to be optimistic. "Come, let us search the place where Gimli fell. If Legolas did indeed encounter a Wraith in battle then he would not have gotten far."

Unfazed by the meaning that Aragorn could have divined from those words if he chose in his dark frame of mind, Jecha moved away from where the small group stood gathered. Aragorn was more reluctant to leave. He was being thorough as Legolas had always taught him to be, searching one grid at a time for what he sought and then moving on to another so nothing could be missed by sloppiness. Methodical and precise. To break away from his system now might lead him further away from his guardian. On the other hand, if Gimli had even a vague notion as to where Legolas was then surely it was worth pursuing. It would be foolish to stick to something that clearly was not producing results.

Forcing himself away, Aragorn followed Jecha and Gimli. They carried no light but the three weary searchers did not seem to mind the darkness. Gimli was concentrating hard. Or maybe, Aragorn pondered, his mind was so occupied by the passing of his father and he was simply lost in thought. Would he too soon wear the same look of weary sadness as the now orphaned Dwarf? Pushing the unbearable thought aside with a shake of his head, Aragorn poured all his concentration onto the ground, determined that he would not miss anything now that hope had been kindled.

In this place, just like the other he had been recently scouring, there were more Human enemy fatalities than Orcs. They lay still, long since expired, bodies growing cold and pale in the near freezing air. Aragorn wondered whether it had been Legolas who had ended their lives with his confident strokes. It was impossible to tell in the darkness whether the Men bore wounds inflicted by the twin white knives but even so it felt to Aragorn as if his guardian was still amongst them, imprinted upon their bodies even after their deaths. The smell of charcoal was distant here, for it drifted from the burning remains of the city's defences, dispersed greatly by the breeze. But it was far from fresh even this distance from the city. Birds had already descended from above to pick at the glorious, plentiful meal laid out before them. The smell of death was thick and dense, almost choking Aragorn in its intensity. He recalled it. Not from battle. But rather from dreams. His first taste of the Shadow he had seen in Mordor in the dead of night, where he had watched his Ranger friends and his trusted guardian die right before him. He remembered the terrible smell of death was the same. He almost gagged at the memory and stumbled in the dirt.

"Are you well?" Jecha asked when he noticed Aragorn's unexpected reaction. It was not surprising to the man, however. The sight of so much death was enough to turn even the strongest stomach of the most seasoned warrior.

Aragorn raised his hand to silence any further queries, not wanting to waste any more precious time and motioned for them to continue the search.

Legolas was not dead, he told himself as firmly as he could manage. Not until he saw it with his own eyes would he believe it. His dreams were but taunts by the Shadow, as were these feelings he now experienced. He had not succumbed to them before, at Legolas' urging; he would not now be brought down by them.

They walked on through the wreckage of war, careful not to trip over the countless lumps littering the field, until Gimli at last spoke and pointed out the rough location he had last seen Legolas just moments after his injury. It was far from the city. Jecha confirmed that this was also roughly the place where the initial search-parties had found Eowyn hours earlier. There was no immediate sign of Legolas though and Aragorn felt disappointment race through him. He had half expected it to be easy once he knew the general location. But it seemed that the search would have to continue to find some sign of his elusive guardian.

The feel of the ground changed. The dirt crunched beneath their feet and the scent of death and Evil filled their nostrils, more potent than ever. And Aragorn knew at once that this was the place. Here the Nazgul had fallen. The whole earth reeked of its dark magic. He pondered that if the world was once more made whole, nothing would ever dare grow on this spot again, such was the foul pollution left behind by the Shadow. In death though, the once powerful Wraith had no physical effect on the searchers aside from the odd tingling sensation that something dreadful had occurred in this place. No lingering magic assailed them, willing them to turn back, as they thought might have been the case for the power of the Witchking was immense. And Eowyn alone had defeated this greatest evil, doing what even the greatest warriors could not, crushing it into nothing but a charred patch of dirt. Sauron would not have expected that, Aragorn thought with pride.

Their search once more proved fruitless. Legolas was nowhere to be seen. Jecha began to wonder whether there was even a body to find. They picked through the corpses of countless slaughtered Men, scattering the carrion birds every time they became too bold and settled upon the wondrous feast spread before them. Blood had churned up the dirt beyond the charred circle left behind by the Wraith; Aragorn heard it squelching beneath his boots, making the whole process even more miserable and sickening. He felt no sympathy for these Men left to rot in the foul earth though. They had chosen their side, they had aligned themselves with the Shadow and they had done so by choice in the end. Coercion was not an excuse. He could not feel anything for their demise; except maybe the faintest flutter of happiness that their evil had at last been wiped away. He considered what a terrible thought that was. To feel nothing for Men who had only been doing what they believed to be right. And yet, he could not change his mind so easily.

The Army of the Dead had been thorough when they had swept through the ranks of the Enemy; they had left nothing of Sauron's Evil alive. The only movement upon the field came from the small search party and the ravenous birds picking through and squabbling over the remains. Soon, more animals would descend, wanting a piece of the feast left behind by the warring factions, probably coming from far and wide for such an ample meal but by then the men of Gondor would hopefully have cleared the field somewhat. For now, though, Aragorn had no intention of giving up his search to clear the litter from the Pelennor.

The first grey light of dawn filtered down through the thick cover of tempestuous clouds.

Jecha looked upwards. How quiet the skies seemed now that the Wraiths had abandoned them. For how long they would remain away was another matter. They would not forsake Gondor for long for they had lost much to the White City and would soon want their revenge for their fallen king. In the quiet, Jecha turned his attentions back to Aragorn. The boy looked exhausted but determined. Gimli simply looked exhausted now. Jecha had been hard-pressed to drag him away from his father's side into this task and he still didn't really want to be here despite also wanting to help his friend the Elf whom he had spoken highly of.

"We're not going to find him, are we?" Gimli's voice broke the deep hush that had fallen between them. Soon the city in the distance would be stirring again with the day and they would be joined on the field by the weary warriors for another day's grim task of searching for the living but for now it was quiet, disconcertingly so. Even the birds went about their task in relative silence, only flapping upwards when their current meal lost its appeal in favour of something better.

"Not alive," uttered the Easterling in grim reply. Once more, his gaze was drawn to Aragorn. Their king would not give up, he knew, not until he found that which he searched for. He had watched the young man enough to recognise the determination set on his features.

Aragorn's eyes were tired, gritty almost. He couldn't recall the last time he had rested. But it mattered not at all to him. Every pace through the wreckage was one less pace to cover over the vastness of the Pelennor. He kept that in mind, idly counting how far he had gone simply for something to keep his mind off the troublesome thoughts that insistently rolled through his mind one after the other. He could feel the deflation all around him as dawn broke. Jecha and Gimli, weary already from the battle, probably suffering injuries of their own and grief for the lost. But he was not defeated. Not yet. He kept telling himself that. Not until he saw with his own eyes. Legolas was not dead.

He thought about calling out for his guardian, hoping to provoke some reaction amongst the dead, but it seemed pointless. Had Legolas been able to shout, he would have done so already. So, he kept looking in focused silence. Searching for some sign of his mentor.

When he found such a sign, it was almost missed. He had looked upwards at the lightening sky and had very nearly stepped right over the knife. Only the slight, bright glint of the blade, caught from the corner of his eye, alerted him of what he had almost passed by. There it laid, starkly obvious amongst cruder Enemy weaponry; Legolas' other white-handled knife.

Aragorn picked it up out of the dirt and turned it over carefully in his hand. The blade was cold and caked with gore but even so it was unmistakeable. He swiped his thumbs over the plane of the blade, revealing the Elven runes worked into the metal. The blade had a beauty that Aragorn had always admired. How strange it felt to be holding the knife in his hands. Aragorn didn't think he had ever been allowed to even touch the knives, so precious were they to his guardian. It felt impossibly light in his hands compared to his own bulkier Anduril. Of Elven make, obviously, and so terribly Legolas.

He looked up from the ground, scanning the field broadly as he had not dared do before.

And there it was at last. The tell-tale sign he had been desperately searching for all night long. A brief flash of dirty gold, gaining his attention by ruffling ever so slightly by the breeze. Had he not been paying such close attention, had all his senses not been on such high alert, he could well have missed the sign entirely, so slight it was, partially obscured behind a flock of greedy, squabbling black crows and squeezed in between the tightly packed corpses of Orcs and Uruk-hai and Goblins.

Aragorn took a hesitant step forward, the long knife of Elven make still balanced on both palms almost in reverence of what it represented. At the change of angle, he caught sight of Legolas' jacket, a gaudy, almost comical yellow-orange blend of colour that only just fitted his slight frame. Upon rummaging through what little clothing was to be found in Rohan, it was all the Elf could find to fit him, although Aragorn had been greatly amused that the Elf was not at all pleased with his latest acquisition. Its unusual colour, teamed with the fact that it was almost a size too small for him made it a most unattractive item and Legolas had groused at the time that it must have been cobbled together out of necessity because no Man would ever _choose_ to wear such an item. It had been a rare display of vanity on Legolas' part but one that Aragorn could understand completely; he was immensely pleased that the jacket would never fit his slightly broader frame despite Legolas once or twice trying to pass it on to him. He had insisted that his leather jacket fitted him so much better and was a more practical travelling garment even though it might not have been as warm as Legolas' offering. Legolas had shot him looks of irritation every time the subject was brought up. But he was never ungrateful for what he had scrounged. It may not have looked much and might well have attracted the attention of just about every enemy they encountered, but it had down padding sewn into the lining - a luxury not to be sniffed at – and speckled brown fur on the cuffs and collar for warmth and it had been the only suitable jacket that he had been able to swipe from the Rohirrim before they had left Edoras behind so Legolas had never again seriously complained about it. It proved unmistakeable now to whom the jacket belonged and Aragorn felt sickened at the new shade of red staining the already awful colour.

Suddenly, Aragorn found that he couldn't draw breath; such was the fear crushing his chest to the point of almost physical anguish. He was so very terrified of what he might find if he approached and scattered the flock of crows obscuring the majority of his view. No matter how much he wanted to, how much his mind screamed for action, his body would simply not heed the command for his legs to move him closer. So he simply stared, for an agonisingly long stretch of time. Another flutter of wind caught Legolas' hair and in turn brushed across Aragorn's face, chilling the sweat that rested there despite the cold air. The cool breeze was as good as a dunking in freezing water and more than enough to break the spell at last.

Dropping the knife to the ground, he lurched forward, stumbling, almost tripping and slipping in the sludge as he ran over the bodies of the dead Enemy to reach where his guardian lay. The crows scattered at his abrupt approach, flapping up into the air, squawking and squealing in irritation at the disturbance to their macabre meal. Aragorn felt a mild pang of disgust at their blood-covered beaks and feathers and the thought that they had been attempting to feed on the flesh of his guardian made him feel physically sick but he shoved his own discomfort aside and focused on Legolas. He was all that mattered.

Aragorn fell to his knees hard but felt no pain at the jarring his battered body received for his carelessness or disgust at the filth he was kneeling in. Legolas was partially covered by another body, two other bodies in fact. Uruk-hai, one missing limbs, the other divested of its head. He hefted the top body off, shoving it aside, a difficult task as the already weighty corpse had stiffened so as to make it most awkward to move since its demise. More of Legolas was revealed but it was impossible to tell much of his condition for a second body still covered him. Aragorn shoved at this one, its head laying not far away.

Then, at last, he could see his guardian for the first time since the beginning of the battle on Pelennor.

Legolas was unnaturally pale, his skin almost grey. And cold. So cold. He reached out for Legolas' hand and immediately recoiled for it was as cold as ice and stiff like the Uruk body he had just shoved away. Blood caked him, dried and darkened over time, from his golden head to his legs, although Aragorn couldn't be sure yet whether it was his all own or not. His eyes were closed tightly, lips slightly parted and he was so still. He looked for all the world like one of the dead.

Trembling so hard that it took two attempts to capture Legolas' wrist between his fingers, Aragorn searched for a pulse, pressing so hard in his desperation to feel one beneath the thin, cold skin that his own fingers ached with the effort. The Elf's skin was so cold that he did not expect to find one. How could Legolas possibly still be alive in this state?

"Aragorn?"

Jecha had at last cottoned on to the fact that Aragorn was no longer picking through the devastation of the battle as he had been doing with such focus and determination so far and was concentrated on one spot on the field. Curious, he ceased his own search and stopped dead, waiting for a reply from the young king. Although he wished it to be true, the Easterling had no idea whether Aragorn had found what he was looking for and even if he had it did not necessarily mean a good outcome. So far, they had not found a single living soul this far out and the chances now of finding one were slim at best. It was difficult, searching for a friend, knowing all the while that chances were the only thing he would find would be a corpse.

The king, however, ignored the call. He was using all his senses to detect some sign of life from Legolas, no matter how small it might have been. Anything would have been acceptable. Holding his breath as though the sound of his lungs inhaling and exhaling air might mask any slight indication of life from his guardian, Aragorn gave up and moved his fingers from Legolas' thin wrist to rest them upon his neck instead. He had seen physicians do this when they were searching for a pulse in the gravely injured. He pressed them deep into the side of the bloodied neck of his guardian and closed his eyes in concentration.

Behind him, Aragorn could hear footsteps coming towards him and he wanted to shush the two others who had ventured out to search the field with him for they could well be obscuring what he desperately looked for. But in the end, he didn't need to.

There it was at last. A slight flutter beneath his finger pads.

At first, he thought that maybe he had imagined it so intently was he wishing it to be present, or that it was his own blood pumping hard through his veins in his nervousness. But no. There it was. A heartbeat. And not his own. For a while, Aragorn kept his fingers right where they were, eagerly awaiting every slow, sluggish thump beneath his aching finger-pads. His own heart was racing wildly again; a mix of relief and utter fear.

Gasps from behind him finally stirred Aragorn from his vigil. He turned his head to Jecha and Gimli, who were both looking down at Legolas. It seemed they presumed him dead for they looked forlorn and suddenly wearier than ever. And it was not surprising that they had leapt to that conclusion. It could not be denied that Legolas truly did look like he no longer lived and Aragorn's reaction must have appeared to be one of grief rather than relief.

Suddenly, Aragorn himself gasped. What was he doing just sitting there doing nothing? Legolas might have lived but from the sluggish beat beneath his fingers it was only barely. And he was clearly gravely injured. He needed a healer.

"Aragorn?" Jecha asked again at the sharp intake of breath from the man. It was not surprising that the Easterling was concerned for the king. After all he had been through, he must have feared that Aragorn's mind would be broken at Legolas' death.

"He's alive." The words were so quiet, so croaky that neither Man nor Dwarf could understand them when they were first uttered. They stared at Aragorn as though fearful that he had completely lost his senses in his grief. Then Aragorn climbed up so he was crouched next to Legolas and began shoving aside the other debris that littered his guardian's body. "He's alive," he said louder this time, although the words hitched in his throat as reality began to set into his mind. "He's alive. He's alive!" How good it felt to say those words! It was more than he could have hoped for.

"What?" Disbelief. It was impossible, Jecha thought, that Legolas still lived. It had been too long, too long exposed to the elements, too long bleeding out. Any Man would be long dead by now, as the soldiers of Gondor had been proving. And yet Aragorn was certain. "He is alive?"

"Yes!" Aragorn insisted impatiently now. They had wasted too much time already. "Help me, Jecha, please."

The Easterling joined Aragorn at Legolas' side but crouched watching for a moment, waiting for the tell-tale rise and fall of the slim chest. And there it was. It was weak, shallow, but incredibly it was there all the same. "I don't believe it," he breathed out. Turning his head to where his Dwarven companion still stood watching in equal astonishment, Jecha ordered, "Go, fetch Valon himself right now. We will take Legolas back to the city immediately."

Gimli found that his stout, usually reliable legs could not or would not move beneath him just yet. He could hardly believe that the beaten, broken being lying before him was the same warrior Elf he had only the day before fought alongside. Another sharp command from the Easterling broke through his haze of astonishment though. He turned smartly on the spot and ran towards the city as fast as he could to call attention to the fact that help was needed. This far out on the plain though it was a useless waste of breath; everyone was still inside the walls of the city and unable to hear him.

Aragorn finished clearing off Legolas and found things to be worse than he had hoped for when he had discovered the presence of a pulse. Blood covered – no, saturated – the Elf's jacket and shirt, coming from a long, ugly gash from the Elf's shoulder, across his chest and growing deeper when it hit the emaciated abdomen. Worse, the wound no longer bled, indicating that Legolas didn't have much blood left in his body for it certainly did not look as though it were healing at all. It stood ugly and open, stark against the pale flesh of Legolas' body.

The wound was fatal. Deep down, Aragorn knew this to be true but he would not accept that just yet. He would do all he could before he even considered giving up on his guardian. Legolas would never give up easily, of that Aragorn was certain. Therefore, he would have to fight too. Jecha apparently recognised the severity of the injury too but he did not seem as optimistic as the king. He sighed heavily and sat back, as though already giving up.

"Legolas, hold on. We'll help you now, I promise," Aragorn told his unresponsive guardian as he shrugged off his jacket to lay it over the prone form. He looked up to find dark eyes staring at him in sympathy. This angered him. "I have not lost him yet!" he snapped at the Easterling. "Help me."

Reluctantly, Jecha rose to his feet. They were a fair distance from Minas Tirith; it would take considerable time to get to the city and retrieve more people to help bear Legolas back to the White City. He feared that Legolas did not have that much time to waste.

"Very well, Aragorn, if this is your wish," said the man calmly despite his misgivings. Truthfully he worried that moving Legolas now might cause more harm than good, especially without a trained healer present to deal with any problems that might arise. But what other choice did they have? At least this way, Legolas might stand more of a chance. Maybe.

Carrying the light Elven prince didn't prove a problem. Jecha had not been seriously hurt in battle and was probably in better physical condition than most other Men. Upon first lifting Legolas up from the ground, the Elf had stirred, a low groan rumbling through him lasting only as long as his shallow breath held out, but still he had not woken. Aragorn walked alongside them, eyes, glistening with tears, flicking constantly from the path ahead of them to his guardian, who hung limply in Jecha's arms. He could not bear the sight and yet nor could he stop himself from looking.

**To Be Continued…**


	72. The Bitter Truth

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: I am so sorry this took so long! It just seemed to take an age to write. Anyway, here it is now. Enjoy. And thank you all so much for the lovely reviews.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 72 – The Bitter Truth**

They walked almost like a funeral procession; certainly with the same feeling of grief and despair. It felt like bearing home the dead.

Legolas hung limply in Jecha's arms, unmoving and unaware it seemed that he was safe at last, loose limbs swinging in time with the Easterling's long strides.

It seemed to Aragorn to take an age to reach the city. They had to take various detours to avoid piles of dead Orcs and Mumakil and even then had to be cautious where they trod for the field remained scattered with the often gruesome remnants of the fierce battle. It was a winding path towards the White City which was once more shrouded in early morning fog and Aragorn was impatient. He considered that had he been the one carrying Legolas and thus setting the pace then they would have arrived already at their destination such was his desperation to reach Minas Tirith. But Jecha carried his burden carefully – slowly. Perhaps it was for the best. Legolas was, after all, injured severely. Too much jostling could make things worse still. Regardless, Aragorn didn't have to like the pace set and he was entitled, he believed, to be eager to reach the city.

As they finally approached the gate, they saw people beginning to filter out from the entrance on the First Level. Aragorn frowned though. Even from this distance, he could tell that none of them were healers come to assist them but rather warriors searching out the dead Men still lying out on the field. Jecha had sent Gimli on ahead to get the healers prepared for receiving Legolas. Anger flared in the king's chest that the order seemed to have been disobeyed as no such help awaited them.

Walking against the flow of slow-moving soldiers come to finish last nights' work in clearing the field of the dead, Aragorn glared openly at them, although it had no effect. They showed no sorrow at the sight of Legolas being borne home in such a state. Their eyes did not sparkle with tears, there were no cries of grief or outrage at the falling of the guardian of their king. They simply looked…resigned. Tired and emotionally weary; one more soldier coming to the city fatally injured was no cause for added despair for most had reached their limit. They had seen too much death in the recent days to be shocked by it anymore.

While he sympathised with their pain, Aragorn thought that Legolas deserved at least a little ceremony. The Elf was, after all, his guardian and without him these Men would not now be standing upon free, Human-controlled earth.

He did not pause to remind his men of this fact. Even if he stood there shouting the injustice at them in his fury he doubted they would have responded. They were still too numb. He wondered fleetingly whether they would be so impassive if it was he, their new king, being carried back in the arms of the Easterling.

He did not dwell on the thought though because right then only Legolas' well-being mattered to him but he would not forget their lack of interest.

Jecha increased his pace once they passed through the Great Gates on the First Level and reached far more level cobblestones, still having to negotiate his way through the passing soldiers when some failed to make way for them. Once free of the throng, he strode around the corner towards where the healers had set up their halls. At the end of the open corridor, Gimli stood waiting for them and he motioned them towards him with an almost frantic wave of his hand.

"They are prepared," was all the Dwarf said and Aragorn could see his eyes looking sorrowfully at the Elf as though he were already dead.

Catching up with the Dwarf, Aragorn grabbed his arm and irrationally growled, "He is not dead yet." It felt good to say that. It gave him some hope. Then he shoved the Dwarf behind him and strode on ahead of Jecha. To himself, he repeated, "He is not dead. He cannot be."

Jecha suppressed a sigh, shifting Legolas' slight weight in his arms. Looking down at the Elf's pale face, he doubted that it would be much longer before that statement was contested.

The healers were gathered waiting for them. Two of them in total. Aragorn almost yelled his anger at the small number. He had wanted more. He had wanted every healer in Minas Tirith working on his guardian, working to keep him alive, he wanted every resource expended to keep Legolas' heart beating; and although he knew that this was impractical considering how stretched they were already, he wanted more and he told them so.

One of the healers was Valon, the Rohan healer with whom Legolas had developed somewhat of a rapport with over the years; namely, he didn't despise him quite so vehemently as he did others. Calm as ever, he urged Aragorn to get ahold of himself once he had silenced the king's protests, insisting that two was plenty to tend to the prince's needs no matter what they were and that it was a good deal more than many soldiers had gotten upon coming to the improvised halls of healing.

Legolas was placed down on the floor, only a blanket covering the flagstones, and the two healers began their work.

From their brief initial assessment, Aragorn couldn't tell whether they considered the prognosis good or not. They gave nothing away. Their faces were grave, but they rarely looked otherwise to him. Precise, confident hands, steadier than Aragorn would have thought possible, carefully removed Legolas' ugly yellow jacket and red-stained shirt, tearing at the thin cloth where they could not release it normally and prodded at the ugly gash running almost the length of the lithe torso with practiced fingers. Legolas made no reaction to any of this attention, not even flinching at a touch that should have had him protesting in agony. Not once did the two physicians confer. They spoke no word of comfort to Aragorn or Jecha as the two warriors watched helplessly at the side of the small side room they were in. It was infuriating. Aragorn wanted to know the truth, no matter what it may have been. But he held his silence with effort, letting the healers do their work in peace.

His foot tapped impatiently on the floor and he chewed on his nails as he waited for the assessment to be complete. It took all his willpower not to tell the healers to hurry up. And Legolas laid on the blanket on which he'd been placed, naked and exposed, not moving under their touches when Aragorn knew that given the severity of his injuries he should have been crying out in pain every time he was touched. Beside him, Jecha was composed as normal, standing perfectly still, waiting with patience that Aragorn could not even imagine right then.

Just when he had reached the end of his tether and was considering grabbing Valon by the arm and dragging an explanation from him, the healer looked up at him. The look in those severe eyes nearly broke Aragorn and he took a trembling step forward even whilst one hand remained on the wall behind him as though he needed it to keep him steady as he stood waiting for the prognosis. He had seen that very same look that now shone in the healer's eyes too often before. Most recently he had seen it shining in the dark eyes of Gimli following the confirmation of the death of his father.

"No." He simply could say nothing more. Bad news was poised on the tip of the healer's tongue but Aragorn did not want to hear it. "No."

"Aragorn," Jecha said softly, his hand moving to the younger man's shoulder in support. "Listen to what the healer has to say."

The command was impossible to ignore, mostly because Aragorn knew that he had no choice; he couldn't have moved even if he wanted to. So he nodded jerkily for Valon to continue, swallowing back the terror that left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"This wound if very serious." Aragorn nodded again and Valon was filled with the kind of pity he felt every time he had to break bad news to a loved one - and then some for he had come to know ward and guardian well. "He cannot recover. Perhaps if he had been found sooner—immediately, I mean, after sustaining the injury." He shook his head then, thinking that the simple action would get through to the stunned man better than words. He was right.

Grey eyes were already brimming with tears but they did not fall, for he did not yet believe what he was being told. The physician was clearly mistaken. Legolas could not die. It was the one certainty in Aragorn's world. His guardian would always be there at his side. Always had been, always would be. After all, Legolas himself had promised his fealty until the very end, until the moment he confronted the Dark Lord for the freedom of Middle Earth, and Legolas would never dare break a promise to his ward.

"You-" the young man started, not realising that his voice was trembling so hard that the words came out almost impossible to understand, "You, do something." He pointed one shaking finger at Valon. Trying his best to make it sound like a command, he repeated, "Do…something."

"There is nothing we can do for him. Even with the very best treatment it would be-" Again Valon shook his head. "I am truly sorry, Your Majesty. There is no hope."

"You-" Aragorn attempted another command but couldn't get any further than that first shaky word, mostly because he could think of nothing above the screaming of disbelief and outright grief that swamped his mind. He forgot where he was standing, he forgot that behind him Jecha stood in support, he forgot that the Ring of Power sat tantalisingly close in his pocket. The only thing he knew was the words Valon had used. 'No hope'. There was no hope for his guardian. His breath whooshed from his lungs and he stumbled backwards, almost falling against the wall but staying upright somehow. He felt Jecha then, holding his arm to keep him from dropping but he knew he would not fall. Not now, for surely Valon had gotten it all terribly wrong.

Aragorn smiled then; a peculiar sight, Valon thought, given the news he had just delivered. "No," the young king finally smiled then closed his eyes as if in relief, the tears finally spilling down his cheeks and streaking through the grime that remained from the battle. "No, you see, Legolas is different. He is not like Man. He is an Elf."

How painful it was to go through these same phases every time with the grieving. Denial. And always the healer had to be the one to shatter it, to break that fragile hope in two. It was the cruellest part of his work. Sometimes, Valon would have liked to have been the one to say 'No, it isn't true. All will be well'. But he could not. It was not ethical for any physician to say such, no matter how much they wanted to erase the suffering of the bereaved as they protested what was fact.

"I am sorry, Aragorn. An Elf he may be but such a wound cannot be healed in any being."

"But- But Legolas heals quickly. Quicker than any Human ever could. He told me that of his race once," the young king protested, wiping his tears away with a swipe of his hand.

"Healing in a Human body requires strength," reasoned the healer slowly so that his words were perfectly clear, "I would imagine that an Elf is much the same. And Legolas just has no strength left. He has lost too much blood from his body, the wound is too severe. He is too cold. It has been too long. Look at him, Aragorn. Look at him. He has nothing left in him to fight this injury."

"But...you can do…something. You can do something."

"There is nothing left I can do."

Suddenly stepping closer to the healer, almost threateningly, Aragorn yelled, "Yes, there is always something! There must be…something. Please, Valon. Please, do not let him die."

"I can make him as comfortable as possible with the resources available to me. We can warm him up. He might regain consciousness before he loses his battle, but if he does it will not be for long."

Aragorn laughed now, a hysterical, almost maniacal sound that did not seem in place with their surroundings nor with their usually more composed king. "You're wrong!" he accused, wagging a finger at Valon and the other healer watching in silence from where he knelt beside Legolas. "You-You are wrong."

"Aragorn, please," Valon pleaded, reaching out into the king's bubble of rage and taking the man's hand and enfolding it within his own warm hands in the hope that he might yet be able to get through to him. "Look at him for a moment," he said softly, almost in a whisper as he turned to Legolas. He urged Aragorn forward a little. "Just look at him."

How it hurt to do as he was asked, to give up in his fight in denying with what the physician said. He did not want to look at Legolas for he knew that in doing so he would be confirming to himself what he knew already to be true, what he had known even before Valon spoke the terrible words, what he had known when he struggled to find a pulse out on Pelennor.

Legolas looked so small laid out on the ground before them. Impossibly small for a person of his age, size and strength. The other healer knelt at his side had covered him with a blanket from the waist down to preserve his modesty, for which Aragorn was grateful; he could well imagine how mortified Legolas would be at such exposure in public. The wound too had been covered with a bandage and a little blood was already seeping through the white fabric, although Aragorn knew that it was nowhere near as much as it should have been from a wound that size and depth. His skin remained an unhealthy ashen colour, not improved by the change of dreary sunlight to warm candlelight. His hands remained still at his sides, torn and scratched from fighting. Every so often – although Aragorn knew not often enough – the thin chest raised and lowered itself a little way in a shallow breath. Apart from that slight movement, Legolas remained entirely still. There was no pain etched on his face - perhaps he was too deeply unconscious to feel anything and Aragorn was also grateful for that small mercy.

Pain welled in the king's chest, as though something heavy were sitting on top of his lungs, squeezing out the air. It was the same crushing feeling of terror that he had felt out on the battlefield when he had first seen Legolas lying lifelessly on the ground buried amongst his fallen foes. He slumped slightly under the weight and felt two sets of hands going to support him by the arms. But he didn't need support. He would not fall. Legolas needed him still. Instead, he took another step towards the bed, disengaging himself from his two concerned helpers, and reached out one hand towards the Legolas. Sinking at last down onto his knees, he stared for a long moment at the unmoving Elf before him. Somewhat uncertainly, he reached out for his guardian. He traced his fingers over the back of Legolas' bony hand, wincing at how cold the skin was. Legolas didn't so much as twitch at the touch and Aragorn felt a pang of disappointment that his guardian did not even know of his presence.

"When will he wake?" he asked shakily, his voice hushed.

"He may not wake. You need to prepare yourself-"

"_If_, then._ If_ he wakes, when will it be?" snapped the king impatiently, closing his eyes at the healer's answer. It wasn't what he wanted – what he needed – to hear.

"There is no way of knowing," Valon answered more sedately this time.

Aragorn nodded his understanding and folded his legs beneath him. "Very well. I shall stay with him until he does." His voice challenged any to contradict him and no one did.

Valon stepped closer again and said, "We will clean him up and give him a change of clothing and make him as comfortable as possible."

"Can we find him some proper bedding?" Aragorn said, distastefully looking at the ratty blankets shrouding his guardian. "He deserves better than this."

"I'll see if I can find a spare bed somewhere within the city where he can rest until—" Valon stopped himself when Aragorn's head bowed. "I'll sort something out, sir."

Jecha lowered his head respectfully. He wanted to stay with his king. He felt the young man's pain acutely. He knew how it felt to lose a loved one. The pain was unbearable and yet one had no choice but to bear it. And now, Aragorn must go through it. Again. Already the man had lost a beloved father and now he must lose a beloved guardian too. How cruel the fates had been to this young king. It did not seem fair. However, there was still much yet for Jecha to do within the city. Chiefly, he had to inform people that they had found Legolas at last. That would not be an easy job but he didn't want Aragorn to have to do it later. Better that he, who was not so close to the Elf, break the news to friends.

"I'll be back soon. Send for me if you need anything," Jecha told the room and received nods from the healers and, as expected, no acknowledgement whatsoever from Aragorn.

The king watched numbly as the healers brought a bowl of water forward and began cleaning Legolas from head to toe. To Aragorn it was like watching funeral preparations. He cast his mind back to all those years ago when he had lost his father to the Orcs. No such ceremony there. Barely time for even the briefest of goodbyes and then a hasty burial in the woods where he had died before Aragorn had been pulled away into a completely different life. How strangely the world worked. It had taken from him Arathorn and given him Legolas as if in repayment for that wretched parting. And now it had taken Legolas from him and what would he get now? Who could replace his guardian? No one, he thought darkly; there was no one. Was this a punishment, he wondered. Were the fates angry at his lack of progress against the Dark Lord's regime? Had he not done enough for Middle Earth? If this was so, then how wrong they were in taking this course, for he was nothing without his guardian. He had always maintained that he could not complete this monumental task by himself and he believed that more now than ever. What did it matter now? Not one man within the vastness of the taken White City meant as much to him as Legolas. He would not die for them, he insisted to himself as he watched the healers wipe the blood and dirt from Legolas' sharp features to reveal bruising all over his hollow cheeks. He felt no anger at what his guardian had endured upon the field of battle, for the injuries marring his body. It was the act of the Shadow and he could do nothing about it. Being angry would not help Legolas. Nor, he supposed would feeling helpless and yet that feeling overtook him until it had settled deep within his mind and he knew it would not easily be shifted.

"Aragorn, do you need anything," Valon's gentle tones cut through his dark thoughts of defeat.

"No."

"We're going to go in search of some wood for the fire and some more blankets. We won't be long. Call out if you need anything; someone will hear you."

"All right."

Valon sighed; Aragorn didn't even seem to be hearing what he was saying, so consumed was he by the terrible truth. He could say nothing though. He knew how the man grieved. So, he merely squeezed the king's shoulder as he passed by and followed his colleague out the door, half closing it behind him to allow Aragorn and his guardian some degree of privacy.

Meanwhile, Jecha was charged with the unenviable task of informing the others of the prince's situation. Not everyone would be told directly, he decided. Many were already back out on the field searching for the dead. But Eomer remained in the main healing hall with his sister. He drank in the news of Legolas' injury quietly, thoughtfully, then simply nodded grimly and turned his face away, looking again to Eowyn. He sat still for so long that Jecha considered his task complete and himself suitably dismissed. He could not tell whether the man's reaction was grief or indifference and he had not the patience to remain to work it out. Next he sent out messengers to bring back Faramir, for although the man had no love for Legolas he did need to know for the sake of the king. He also sent people out to bring all the Rangers together. They knew Legolas better than perhaps anyone else within the White City save Aragorn. Also, Jecha summoned his own ragtag group of followers. All except Gimli, who had his own grief to deal with and probably knew the truth already, having seen Legolas out on the field.

Predictably, it was the Rangers who found him first. They were eager for news. Jecha took them into a small room that stank of Orc filth but that was the most private place close by and no one cared too much about the smell. They seemed to know instinctively that the news was bad. Jecha would have been celebrating had he brought them together to tell them that all was well and the Easterling was most definitely not celebrating.

They fell silent upon hearing that Legolas would not survive. All of them stood still and silent in the wake of the news, just as Aragorn had in the beginning. At first Jecha could glean nothing from their reaction. Perhaps they were stunned into emptiness, unable to feel for a moment. But when it hit them all, as the reality set in, it was obvious. It clouded the atmosphere and suddenly the small, Orc-defiled room felt horribly dank and oppressive, as though the grave news were seeping into the very walls and in turn leaching out and poisoning the air.

Ciaran was the first to break the hush. He let out a sharp cry and moved close to Janor where he stood sobbing into the older man's shoulder. Janor himself looked utterly stunned by what he had just been told but although tears filled his eyes he clung to Ciaran with his uninjured hand as though he needed the support just as much as the younger Ranger.

Kalub broke away from the rest of the group, going to stand below the high window, which was positioned too high in the grey fascia to see anything out of, yet he gazed at it as though he could see the whole of the Pelennor spread out before him until he bowed his head low, shoulders slumped. Tarsem simply remained where he was, looking at Jecha in pity, feeling sympathy for the man who had to break the terrible news to the friends of Legolas. No tears filled his eyes but Jecha was sure he saw a flicker of respect for the fallen warrior in his sharp eyes.

The remaining Rangers all grouped together, gathering as one around Janor, their leader. They were filled with sadness, for they considered Aragorn and Legolas to be of the Rangers more than any other faction of Men. No one asked any questions of Jecha. Not one wanted to know how it happened or when or how he had been found. Perhaps they didn't care. What was, was. No amount of details could change the fact that Legolas was dying. There was nothing any of them could do and they made no attempt to offer their services – although Jecha knew that if he asked they would all seek to help in any way they could. But there was nothing he could ask from them and so he stood in slightly awkward silence, waiting for the moment he considered his duty done. Almost reverently they stood in a respectful silence of their own. Jecha felt more like an intruder amongst them now than he had ever done. This was private grief he was witness too and he was not comfortable with it at all. He considered slipping away from them but he did not. He let their pain wash over him, as he had done earlier with Aragorn. It felt jarringly familiar – for it was the same pain that lingered over his heart and that he was not alone in it was of some small comfort.

When at last he decided it best to leave the Rangers alone to grieve amongst themselves for a while, Jecha found Bracell and his wife waiting outside along with Sonal, his fellow Easterling. Their young daughter was nowhere to be seen but Jecha had not expected her to be in attendance. He had not summoned her as he had the others. With all that had happened she must have been frightened and she had shown no regard whatsoever for Legolas in the time they had travelled together.

Only three now left amongst them. Their unusual grouping, come together out of need and necessity, had suffered greatly in the battle it seemed. Gloin had fallen, so too had the enormous Haradhrim man who had become somewhat close to Aragorn when they travelled together. Gimli was not present, but Jecha had not expected him to be. Also missing was the Wild Man from Dale he had travelled with but whether he had fallen in battle Jecha did not know. He wouldn't have turned up upon being summoned anyway, he was too independent to ever listen to orders. Either way, it didn't matter. He would not care one jot for Legolas' demise.

His people took the news stoically. No tears were shed. No laments spoken. They barely knew Legolas, after all, and even those that did know him did not care for him much. Sonal stared at him, as if questioning the need for bringing them all together in the first place and Jecha lowered his eyes almost in shame, for his companion must have known that he felt grief for the loss of a friend and thought it foolish. Bracell looked to the ground, as if feigning grief and his wife closed her eyes only briefly then seemed to shake off the bad news and, deciding that it did not matter to her, looked to her husband. They shared a look that suggested that they were relieved that it had not been worse, that it had not been someone close to them who had died.

Jecha dismissed them, a little disappointed at their ambivalence, and they left gladly. Sonal lingered a moment longer, maintaining his stare, but Jecha merely looked away from the piercing gaze and the man walked stealthily away without a word to his companion.

And that was it. Everyone who could be informed, who needed to be informed, had been told, and Jecha found himself at a loss. He did not want to return to Aragorn. He didn't want to witness the man's grief anymore. He knew it too well and he needed a break from it. To have to replay it in his mind over and over would be too much. Besides, he had seen plentiful death before; he did not need to witness more to be certain of its outcome. Yet he also felt guilty for leaving Aragorn alone. No matter how much the distraught king might have protested, he would not want to be completely by himself when the moment finally came. It was not good for him. Torn, he decided to seek out a place to gather his thoughts before returning to the king. Better that he be composed when next he faced Aragorn, than show his true sadness.

**OIOI**

The healers had long since left them alone. In the aftermath of the battle, there was still much to do. Patients needed checking on, bandages needed changing, relatives needed comforting. They could not spend all their time one just one single patient, no matter that he was the guardian of their king. Aragorn understood this even if he didn't like it particularly. There was nothing more they could do to help Legolas, both Valon and his fellow healer had made that perfectly clear several times – so many times, in fact, that Aragorn was sick to death of hearing the words.

What did it really matter whether they were there or not, was the unspoken comment made by the physicians; their presence could no longer affect the outcome. Aragorn could see their thinking in their eyes even as they tried to obscure it with platitudes and because of that it brought him no comfort.

At least Valon had been good enough to do as Aragorn had asked. Unable to find suitable bedding to transfer to the hall for the fallen Prince of Mirkwood, they had found him a private room just down the corridor from the hall being used to house the injured. It was not much. A meagre space with just one tall window long ago boarded up and only one room. A bed had been dragged in. Again, it was little but the frame but in comparison to what they were used to it was almost luxurious. Aragorn himself had gone around the other rooms close by in order to clobber together some more blankets, no matter what their state of disrepair, and clothing, whatever could be used to pile on the wooden frame as a mattress for his guardian. It had been satisfying for a time, to be actually doing something useful. Such a minor inconvenience for others would, Aragorn was certain, make his mentor's rest somewhat easier to endure.

He had found candles too, brought from Osgiliath, and placed them around the room for when darkness came. He did not light them, nor did he build a fire in the hearth, for Legolas would have considered it a terrible waste when there was daylight to illuminate the room.

The moment of usefulness had been brief and when it passed and Aragorn was again perched on an upturned wooden crate that had once been used by the Shadow to store weaponry in Minas Tirith, he felt even more useless than ever. What more could he do? Patience had never been his strong point. He wanted Legolas to wake. To pull himself from whatever pain was keeping him down in the depths of unconsciousness. It was unfair, to expect such a thing, but his selfish side could not be ignored and for once he did not wish to ignore it. Had he listened to what his mind was screaming at him, to what the healers had implanted there, then could knew he could not have stood it.

So now Aragorn sat in silence, waiting with patience so forced that it was beginning to ache behind his eyes. His thoughts turned inwards again and then towards the battle that had been, but that, he knew, was dangerous territory to explore. Had Legolas been there as he should have been to offer support, then Aragorn would have allowed the melancholy to take him wholly. He would have languished in the horror of all he had been forced to do and see during the Battle of Pelennor Fields. He ached to have his guardian tell him that he had done the right thing, that all that had been sacrificed was necessary, that they had made a dent in the armies of Shadow. Aragorn found himself feeling irrationally bitter that his mentor, the one who had coached him through such dreadful moments so many times before, was not there to give his advice now as he should have been.

Shifting, he shoved these dark thoughts aside. There would be time, later, when Legolas was recovering, to take stock of all that had happened in Gondor.

After a while, Aragorn found himself staring at his guardian and mentor, watching the agonisingly slow rising and falling of his chest, which became almost hypnotic after a few minutes. Every rise brought Aragorn relief that Legolas' body was still struggling, no matter how feebly, to maintain life and every exhale made his heart flutter in fear that he would never see the former again. His guardian lived. He clung to that knowledge tightly for it was the only thing holding him together. Legolas, however, didn't stir once under his careful watch, never responded once when Aragorn adjusted the blankets over his body. Each unbearable moment became more torturous than the last and there was nothing to distract him from the truth of what laid before him.

No one came to him and he couldn't decide whether about this he was pleased or saddened. Was the whole of Minas Tirith really ambivalent towards the fall of the Elven Prince of Mirkwood? Did they not care at all?

He took Legolas' hand in his own but it brought him no comfort. It didn't feel like Legolas anymore. Legolas was strong, firm. This felt like the hand of a frail, elderly Human rather than that of his immortal mentor. But he held on anyway, hoping that maybe even through unconsciousness Legolas could feel the touch and appreciate and draw comfort from his presence.

The grey day gave way to the night and still nothing stirred in the room. At dusk, someone came by to place a candle in the room to provide light and an hour after that a healer came and checked on Legolas, only to report that there was no change. Aragorn, hopeful as he was, took this as a good sign. No change was better than a change for the worse, he reasoned with somewhat strained positivity. Jecha did not return to them as Aragorn had thought he might. But then, he supposed, people were extremely busy with the clean-up, too busy to trouble themselves with the fallen. Maybe later they would come.

He sat in a kind of contemplative trance, staring at the rising and falling of the thin chest in fascination. He didn't notice when a soldier he had never met before came to ask him if he wanted something to eat only to quickly retreat upon seeing the king's mood and receiving no reaction for his troubles.

It was Aragorn's own voice, much to his surprise, that finally broke the heavy pall clinging to the room. How unnatural it sounded amidst the thick silence, cracked and weary after hours of shouting out orders on the field of battle followed by a long silence.

"You can't leave me, you know," he uttered matter-of-factly.

Upon hearing the noise come from his mouth, he startled, sitting up-right on his crate. He had been thinking those very words almost constantly, like a pleading mantra, for the last few hours but this was the first time he had spoken them out loud, even inadvertently. It felt strangely pleasing to give voice to thoughts too terrible to dwell on. It felt like at last he was doing _something_, no matter how small a thing it was.

Now that he had broken the trance he had fallen into though, he found that he could not stop his words pouring forth to the one who probably would never hear them even if he wished to.

"You swore to me that you would stand with me until the bitter end. You remember swearing that?" He scoffed to himself at his own words. As if Legolas would ever forget. "Would you now break that promise?" He shook his head, answering the question posed in Legolas' stead. "No. You would not. You would never betray me." Squeezing the limp hand held in his own ever so slightly tighter as a small act of comfort, Aragorn shook his head again, blinking slowly, although for the first time in hours his eyes were clear.

More quietly now, he told his guardian in a hushed voice, "You once told me that you would follow me anywhere; even unto the ending of the world, so you said. Well," he steeled himself, like a parent admonishing a small child for a wrong-doing even though punishment somehow felt unjust, "as your king, Legolas, I forbid you to leave me. Do you understand me? I command you to fight this. I forbid you to leave."

He got no response even to his veiled threats. Legolas remained silent and unmoved by the pleas, stubbornly inert on the bed. Aragorn lowered his head into a bow of grief, all fight disappearing from his countenance. Legolas would answer if he were able, he reminded himself. Perhaps the words would have gotten through to him, perhaps they would have some effect even through whatever suffering Legolas fought.

And then, he felt the slightest twitch beneath his fingers. Movement, for the first time in many long hours.

Sitting up straight on the bed, Aragorn stared wide-eyed at his guardian, torn between remaining where he was, waiting for some further sign of activity and running to find a healer just in case Legolas was waking and would require aid. Selfishly, he opted for staying put. His face would be the first Legolas would see, of that he was determined.

"Legolas?" he whispered, his eyes transfixed upon the pale face of his mentor. The Elf shifted his head a fraction on the pillow. Not much. But it was more than Aragorn had seen in what seemed a lifetime and it sent a thrill of relief and joy rushing through him. "Legolas, can you hear me?"

A small moan escaped him then and Aragorn's heart rate sped up once more. Expectantly, he kept his eyes fixed on Legolas' face, waiting.

Then, miraculously, Legolas' mouth opened a little way and whispered words left his dry throat. "As you…command, so…shall I obey."

Aragorn could have burst into hysterical laughter at the familiar words of acknowledgement of his pleas; they were an echo of those Legolas had spoken to him once before, spoken in jest that time, but now deadly serious.

"You're awake?" the man asked enthusiastically although it was entirely unnecessary.

So far Legolas had not opened his eyes even a little to look at Aragorn but at the man's question a tired smile of amusement flitted across pale lips. "Seems so," he whispered, his voice so terribly weak and coarse that Aragorn could hardly hear it. He made no attempt to move or look at his ward. He simply laid there, still and pale, looking no more alive than he had a moment ago and Aragorn would have believed that it was merely his imagination that had conjured those words of reassurance but for the ever so slightly increased breathing of his guardian, seemingly brought on by the simple effort of speaking aloud.

"I should go find Valon. He told me to summon him when you woke," Aragorn said, going to stand up. Not that he would tell Legolas but these had not been Valon's words to him before he left to see to his other patients. His exact words had been,_ 'If he awakes, come find me immediately.'_ Legolas did not need to know this pessimistic order though.

Legolas, however, did not need to be told directly. "It…It is bad…then?" Legolas swallowed thickly with effort and it seemed as if the slight movements it took to speak were painful to him as his brow wrinkled as if in distress.

"No," the man quickly answered, almost too fervently. It was a lie, plain and obvious and even in his weakened state, Aragorn knew that there was no way that Legolas would mistake it. He always had an uncanny way of seeing right through whatever bluster or lie Aragorn constructed to fool him. Still, he could not stop himself. As much for himself as his guardian, he added confidently, "You'll be fine now."

"You…cannot promise."

To this, Aragorn made no reply, although he was glad that Legolas' eyes remained shuttered and he could not see the desperation that must have so plainly shown on his face. Deciding that he needed to fetch Valon before his bravado in the face of his guardian faltered, Aragorn informed his guardian that he would be back within moments then strode from the room in search of the physician, uncertain now as to whether this waking was a good thing or not.

**OIOI**

Where had Aragorn gone? He was sure that his young ward had been there just moments before. Had he not just been speaking to him? And yet now he was gone. Where? Why would he leave now? Or had Aragorn never been there. His mind was so confused, thoughts mixing and roiling together until they mashed, becoming impossible to distinguish between truth and falsity.

Pain assailed his whole, deep, bone deep pain that he knew could not be quashed by strength of will or herbs dragged from the earth. He had a nagging thought in the back of his mind that something was very, very wrong with him. Something more than simply the injury he could feel burning across his chest. He couldn't see this intangible wound but he could feel it there just the same; not sharp pain as when the cursed knife that had caused his physical injury had ripped through him but rather a dull aching filled with an inexplicable but very real feeling that some darkness lingered deep within his flesh and soul; magic, dark magic of the Shadow.

Suddenly, he arched painfully on the bed, gasping and heaving for breath as he remembered and the truth of the battle assailed him, bold and unrelenting now that it had been unleashed. He could feel the hands of the Wraith upon his skin, burning him in their intensity, muddying his purity and defiling him as nothing else on this earth could. How close he had come to Death itself. He had touched the Darkness, had felt its hand upon him. He felt it even now, coiling through him, seeking out every nook and cranny of his Light to pollute and destroy. He tried to fight it, to push the Darkness from his mind but he knew he was not strong enough. It was too late anyhow. He was poisoned just as surely as if he had been struck by a tainted dart. How could he ever forget the terror that coursed through him, burning him, stripping him of his life-force?

"Aragorn," he breathed through the agony tearing at him, at long last forcing his eyes open and turning his head on his pillow in an attempt to search for his ward. But no, he was all alone here. "Aragorn."

Tears gathered in his eyes and he didn't have the strength to keep them from falling. They trickled from his eyes, dampening the stiff, musty-smelling fabric of the pillowing his head. Moaning, he tried to sit up in a futile attempt to escape this torture but he couldn't move. Everything hurt too much. He considered almost manically the Dark poison now working its way through his body, seeping into his spirit. There was no antidote, he knew, nothing any healer could do to fix what had broken in him. The Black Breath was fatal; he knew that much, he had been required to read up on the Wraiths when they first came to haunt Dol Guldur in his now lost homeland. His mind was cast to the accounts of the terrible deaths suffered at their hands. Poisoned swords, thick with magic impenetrable even by the greatest sorcerers allied to the Light; slow lingering deaths that remained entirely untouched by whatever potions the healers could design. There was no comfort through the pain, no hope. His soldiers had always feared venturing near Dol Guldur for just that reason. All other enemies they could tolerate to a certain extent, although all were abhorrent to them. The Nazgul were not regular enemies though. They were something else entirely. Something that couldn't be bested. For even their death brought death upon those around them. They were a weapon too great to be beaten. And he had thrown himself at their mercy.

Legolas remembered what had happened to him with perfect clarity; the memories swept nauseatingly over him and he fought the pain of truth. The Wraith had descended from above on its wretched beast; he had killed the monstrous steed but it could never have been enough, such a feeble attempt it was laughable; it had died not by his sword as would have been right but rather at the hand of Eowyn, defiantly ignoring his command and helping him before he could be killed outright as would have been just. He worried for the woman as he remembered how she had been struck down, but what could he do now to help her? He could not sit up and he certainly couldn't walk. Perhaps when Aragorn returned he would ask him of her fate. He knew not whether she even lived, whether Aragorn would even know whether she lived. Gimli too had been there but he found that he was even less certain about the Dwarf's fate.

His own fate, he knew, was certain, set in stone; as perhaps it had always been. What had been done could not now be undone. The only thing left to do was wait, to endure whatever trials stood between him and peace.

Aragorn returned some minutes later with Valon in tow. The healer smiled upon seeing him awake, although like Aragorn's smile, it was vacant, not reaching his eyes nor brightening his face.

"Good to see you awake at last, Legolas," Valon said gently and Legolas imagined he had said it numerous times to various people in all kinds of states since the ending of the battle. As a youth he had spent enough time with the healers of Mirkwood to detect the signs of false pleasantries intended to soften the blow. "How do you feel?"

The healer went to take Legolas' wrist, to check the rate of his pulse, but the Elf pulled away from him stubbornly. "Don't," he ordered so croakily that it barely sounded like a word at all.

In his years training as a physician, using only the wisdom of those who had come before him and what scraps of information left over after the ravaging of Rohan to hone his skill, Valon had come to be able to read every subtle sign his patients deigned to give him. He could tell when a warrior was in pain but too stubborn to admit it, he could see behind the masks of bravado and indifference and had come to learn how best to approach those who considered privacy the greatest privilege of all in their final moments. It had been a long road to build up this kind of skill, far more delicate than learning the physical aspects of being a physician, but it had served him well over the years. A great many times in the past he had seen the same look in Men's eyes as Legolas now fixed him with. Whilst lesser trained Men might have mistaken it for pride or determination and greeted it with condemnation at so petty a view, Valon, with his wealth of experience better than any lesson that could be taught, saw the truth behind those heavy blue eyes. He saw defeat; the unmistakeable knowledge the Elf held that the inevitable was coming and there was no point in even attempting to fight it. He nodded slowly in acknowledgement and pulled his hand away with a look that he hoped conveyed his understanding to Legolas, well aware the whole time that Aragorn was stood behind him, staring intently at his back, ready to step in the moment he walked away. But he could not ignore Legolas' wishes no matter what the King wanted. The patient always came first.

"All right," the healer finally whispered softly, laying his hand gently on Legolas' shoulder.

Deep blue eyes closed briefly and a slight smile came to thin lips. "Thank you."

"I'll do what I can to make it easier."

"What does that mean?" asked Aragorn sharply, sensing the tone of finality in the healer's voice and not understanding just what had passed between physician and patient without his knowledge. "Valon? What does that mean, you'll make it easier?"

"Keep your voice down, Your Majesty, please," rebuked the healer. "We can talk outside." If he could, he wanted to spare Legolas having to listen to what he knew he had to do next.

"Go, Aragorn," Legolas said wearily when he saw his ward hesitate. Aragorn knew the truth of his situation too, he was sure. Deep down, he must have known. But he would not accept it, of that Legolas was certain. He would never accept it. There was nothing else to be done though, and Aragorn's anger could not alter that fact. "Go. Please."

Aragorn did not want to go. He wanted to remain at the side of his guardian, watching as Valon, famous healer of Rohan who had dragged many a man back from the brink of death, healed his ailing mentor of whatever dreadful wound afflicted him. But that would not come to pass. That was surely what this coming conversation would be about. It was the 'prepare yourself' conversation. Aragorn wasn't sure he could bear to hear it. And yet he knew he had to. Legolas knew he had to, and so did Valon. They would not relent until it was done and he could no longer refute the truth that had laid before him ever since the end of the battle.

It proved to be just as horrific as he had anticipated. Outside the door, sheltered from Legolas' bleary gaze, Aragorn stood tall and unmoving and let Valon's words of apology wash over him. He was told that there was no hope and he nodded. He was told that Legolas would not be allowed to die in pain and he nodded. He listened as Valon explained how the process would go and he nodded. He was given a potential deadline and he nodded. That was all he could do. Nod. None of the words really registered with him. He couldn't let them. If he absorbed them as Valon wished him to do, as Legolas wished him to do, then he would fall apart and so long as he could keep this pretence of everything being just fine then it would become true and all would be well in his mind. He wouldn't have to deal with it if he didn't accept it. It was perfect logic.

"Do you understand all I have said, Your Majesty?"

Valon's question washed over him and Aragorn was prepared to ignore it but the healer was patient and he waited for acknowledgement. Grey eyes cleared and Aragorn shook his head slightly to clear it.

It was mistaken for a negative. The healer launched into another explanation, slower this time to compensate for his king's apparent confusion. Aragorn couldn't bear to go through all that again, even when he was only marginally focusing on what was being said. He held up his hand.

"I understand, Valon."

The healer nodded, slow and attentive, not at all like Aragorn's distracted acknowledgements. Sympathy shone in his eyes, carefully controlled. It would not do for the healer to break down when working. Aragorn admired that quality and wished it was one he possessed naturally.

"Anything you or Legolas need, Your Majesty-"

"No. Just leave me- Leave us." He turned back to the door, hand on the knob, ready to go back to the nightmare that awaited him inside. "And…don't ever address me by that title," he added shakily, not glancing back. "It means nothing."

The king disappeared back into the room where Legolas lay and Valon let him go, unable to do anything. The man was grieving. He should be left to it, not pursued by his subjects, even those who were trying to help. So he turned away. Sorrow filled him. He had done this too much since leaving the relative safety of Osgiliath. So much grief from such a hope-filled campaign. It was an oxymoron; impossible to fathom in the eyes of a healer. Yes, the armies of Light had won, but so too had Sauron in a way. He had taken many people from them, had torn apart friendships and families. And now he had broken the heart and spirit of their king. It was a victory for the Darkness, not the Light, secured in this battle. Perhaps the soldiers would come to see the good once they had licked their wounds, but the healers would always know the truth for they saw what others did not. They saw suffering that soldiers could not imagine and did not want to imagine. It was the lot of the healer but it was one that Valon had always known about. Born into war and living through it, it had become something almost natural, easy to bear at times. But at other times, when the price was as high as this, he saw no reason in it.

The healers always knew the truth. There was no true victory. Not in this war.

**To Be Continued…**


	73. All Turns To Darkness

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thank you for all the reviews. Much appreciated.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 73 – All Turns To Darkness**

Legolas forced his eyes open with effort. They felt too heavy and he too weak for something so strenuous he considered wearily but he persevered, refusing to be beaten by so small a task. It was quiet all around him. Peaceful almost. He felt relaxed. It was an odd feeling because he also felt like he should not be so. He felt like he should be lost in panic and grief. He felt as if all around him there should be the hustle and bustle of urgency. And yet, blissful silence filled him and soothed him.

The sunlight that filtered into the room was the typically unimpressive light struggling through thick, unnatural grey clouds but it still stung his sensitive eyes and he blinked against the unpleasantness of the glare. The bed he was laid on was soft and comfortable, unlike anything he had felt in years but even that felt as though it should not be. He should be laid on the cold ground covered in nothing but the thin blanket he shared with his Human charge. His limbs felt flaccid, all but useless after the recent exhausting strains of fighting. Each breath he took rattled painfully in his chest, the effort to force oxygen into his tortured lungs almost too great for him to bear.

It was quiet in the room, but not completely silent as he had first thought, he realised. Someone was breathing close to him, slow and deep as if in slumber. Turning his head carefully on the pillow, Legolas strained to see who it was. It might have been light but his vision was veiled as though the fog common on the Pelennor had leached through the sturdy white walls and into the room in which he now rested. He could have guessed who was with him though without ever having to look.

Aragorn was sat awkwardly on an upturned crate by the side of his bed, head bowed low, nearly touching his knees. He was breathing heavily, almost as if he was asleep. But Legolas could tell that he was not. His shoulders were hunched and tense, not relaxed as one who slept; he looked downtrodden.

Opening his mouth a little, Legolas tried to speak, to attract the attention of his ward, but his throat was too dry to form any words. Nothing would come out. So he laid still, letting the pain – both his own and Aragorn's – wash over him, hoping that soon he would acclimatise. He stared at the cracked ceiling, bathed in dull light, trying to distract himself by tracing with his eyes the tears in the ceiling and the spider webs that hung low, grey with dust and long neglected.

He knew now what was happening, remembered all that had happened to him out on the Pelennor. He remembered being cold, colder than ever before and feeling the hopelessness stripping away any promise for a future that might have existed in his mind prior to his encounter with the Witchking. He recalled, somewhere at the back of his mind, being carried away from the site of his failure in someone's arms, followed by terrible pain. He had wanted to cry out for the pain to stop but he had been trapped within his own mind until finally darkness had fallen. And then he had heard Aragorn's shameless pleas for him to return and he had felt so completely helpless, being supposedly aided by the healers but being unable to do as his ward begged. And then he was fully awake with Valon telling him with a mere glance that it would soon all end.

He remembered clearer than anything the touch of the Witchking and the unearthly pain of that encounter suddenly crashed over him again, making him cry out loud without even realising what he was doing. Even his vocalisation of this pain came out as little more than a strained groan; inadequate, he thought as he strained to rein in his agony.

Aragorn was instantly up at the slight sound, perfectly straight and alert and looking to his guardian, concern clouding his watery grey eyes. He looked ready to get up and run to find a healer to help but seemed torn between leaving to search for aid and staying to soothe his disturbed guardian.

"Legolas?"

Despair anew had washed over Aragorn as his thoughts were broken by the sound of his guardian waking. It was so very easy to convince himself that this was all a terrible nightmare sent to him by the Shadow to torment him when he closed his eyes. But when they were open and looking upon the one who was forced to suffer for his allegiance there was no denying the truth. This was not how it was supposed to be. He was never meant to be in this position. Watching his mentor die. He had never before seen Legolas look like this before and he would never get used to seeing it. His face was pale, lined with pain and exhaustion, pitted here and there with cuts sustained in battle. Bruises, stark against his sickly, white skin darkened his neck and face, all the more evident now that he had been cleaned up by the healers. He had also been bandaged and the coarse cloth covered almost all of his torso, concealing the hideous, fatal wound from sight. Great swathes of off-white material, already spotted with dark red blood that grew more evident with each passing hour. He was still bleeding, slowly but surely leaking more and more of his life blood. Soon there would not be enough left for him to survive. And there was absolutely nothing anyone could do about it. So they had patched him up and made him as comfortable as possible but it was not enough for Aragorn.

Never before had Aragorn felt so utterly and completely helpless. It was agony, sitting here doing nothing whilst his guardian suffered a slow and no doubt painful end. It was never meant to be this way. He was the king. It was he whom Sauron wanted more than any other. Legolas was nothing but collateral damage. In the wrong place at the wrong time and now suffering for a promise made many years ago.

"Legolas?" Aragorn tried again when his guardian did not reply.

After a moment, the pain that had swamped him ebbed again and Legolas relaxed, exhausted, back on the bed. The potent venom of the Wraiths still flowed through him, crept slowly through his veins on his polluted blood, draining his life force as much as the wounds seeking to steal away that very blood. He was besieged from all angles, growing steadily weaker with every laborious beat his heart undertook and he was just too weak to fight it. His own body was the weapon that was killing him. Ironic, he thought; all the strength he had lived on, the promise of absolution when the time was right, and it was all worth nothing now. His eyes closed on the world, blocking Aragorn from his sight for the time being. He needed strength to deal with the man that he didn't have yet.

Panicked, Aragorn's voice drifted over Legolas' haze of exhaustion. "I'm going to get a healer!"

"No."

The Elf's hand darted out to snag his ward's wrist, keeping him from leaving. The thought of being alone in this darkness was too much to bear right then. Aragorn paused, legs still bent ready to take off in search of Valon. How could he deny the wishes of his guardian when he was so gravely injured? So he slowly seated himself back down, prying Legolas' weak fingers from where they encircled his wrist to reposition them so that their hands were entwined. He recalled, many years ago, finding it strange when after a nightmare Legolas had embraced him. The contact had been unusual and somewhat uncomfortable, as though the Elf was a stranger to him. But now it felt so natural to have Legolas' hand wrapped in his own. It felt like…family.

Tears blurred his vision but he ruthlessly blinked them aside. Legolas might not be able to see them but surely if he could the he would admonish him for his foolishness. For long moments they sat in silence, Aragorn trying to compose his emotions before his guardian was made aware of them, and Legolas waiting for the effects of the poison to roll over him and grant him some momentary peace to face what must be done.

Finally, blue eyes opened again. Although bleary and unfocused, they immediately sought out Aragorn and a smile tugged at horribly pale lips.

"Aragorn," whispered the Elven prince, his voice so soft that it was only just audible.

"Are you with me now?" Such a ridiculous question but it was all the man could think of to say. His voice trembled tellingly and upon hearing it Legolas almost cracked another smile.

"I am here."

It should have been a comfort, those words that Legolas had spoken so many times before when the king doubted himself so greatly, those words that offered peace and strength all in one, but now Aragorn found no comfort in them and they possessed no sense of strength on the Elf's part. Perhaps it was because he feared that they were, for the first time in his life, false.

Clearing his throat so that he could at least make a decent attempt to sound strong, Aragorn asked, "Do you want some water?"

His stomach churned at the mere idea of having to ingest anything, but his throat was almost painfully dry, so Legolas nodded. The cool, stale water dribbled through his dry lips was perhaps the most delicious thing Legolas had ever tasted but he nevertheless restrained himself. He wanted to drain the entire canteen and then some but didn't particularly like the idea of bringing it all back up again if he splurged, so he restricted himself to small, delicate sips.

"Better?" Legolas nodded so Aragorn replaced the canteen and took up his post at the bedside again. "Do-Do you remember what happened?"

"Yes, I remember." In all too vivid detail, Legolas thought to himself. "The Nazgul came."

"Eowyn fought it. She killed it."

"Eowyn." The memory of the woman had been a little hazy but upon mention it came back into sharp focus. Yes, he recalled brave Eowyn throwing herself into the path of the Wraith, defending him. "Was she-? Is she…alive?"

"So far. Eomer sits with her. She is strong though. Valon thinks she has a chance of pulling through. Although he still cannot quite get around to what is causing this illness. She was mostly uninjured and yet she sickens."

Legolas heaved a sigh, and in the same instant regretted it as the fiery pain overcame him again. Once the flare-up had passed and his breathing had levelled out once again, he whispered, "The Black Breath."

"The Black Breath? What is that?"

"The Nazgul's greatest defence. Punishment for attempting to rid the world of them. Dark spells taught by the Witchking."

"You've heard of this?"

"A little."

"Will she be all right? Eowyn?"

"I hope so."

It was hardly the confident answer that Aragorn had been hoping for but it was all Legolas could manage, that much was clear. His breathing had become laboured since waking and his face paler than ever. Just as Valon had said would happen. He was weakening. The thought was too much and just as quickly as it came, Aragorn mercilessly shoved it aside. Legolas was not going to die. So long as he clung to that assertion, everything could be well again. In his mind's eye, he saw Legolas as he had always been: strong, unyielding. Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, had survived worse things than this during his long life. He would not be taken down by the Shadow. There was still so much for him to do at the side of the king.

"What of you?" asked the Elf breathlessly, startling Aragorn with the question. "Were you hurt?"

"No," Aragorn was quick to reassure. It brought him sadness and no small amount of guilt to say, "No, barely a scratch."

Hearing the mournful tone, Legolas at last opened his eyes and glanced sideways at his ward. "Why so sad when you say this? I am relieved beyond all words to hear it." His free hand came up and he laid it palm down against Aragorn's rough cheek, only to find his face wet with tears. His ward was crying for him. Yes, he knew the truth about his end, but until now he wasn't sure that Aragorn was truly aware of it. He sighed again, mindful of the pain and more carefully this time, and forced a smile. "It is all right, Aragorn."

"It's not all right!" snapped the man suddenly, although he made no attempt to remove his guardian's hand or to get away. "It's not. You-This should not have happened. Not like this."

Legolas chuckled humourlessly, a strange sound so strangled did it emerge from his chest. "Then what way would you have it?"

"I would have it not happen at all!"

"That was never an option. You know this."

Aragorn nodded, no longer able to hold back his tears and no longer caring what Legolas thought of him. Let the Elf think him weak. He was weak without his guardian, that could not be denied and he was tired of pretending that all was well. He choked on a cry and clutched at Legolas' hand tighter than ever, squeezing long fingers between his own. "I saw this," he cried, bowing his head with the weight of his grief. "I saw this happen to you." Legolas' brow wrinkled in confusion and he struggled to focus on what his charge was saying. "In a dream, I saw the Wraith take you away from me because of the choices I had made. I made this happen."

"No."

"I knew something like this would-I should never have ordered-"

"Stop!" Legolas commanded, sounding suddenly so very much like his old self that Aragorn obediently ceased speaking what had been at the forefront of his mind ever since he had realised that Legolas was missing out on the Plains. "I will not hear this. You could not have known this was going to happen and my undoing was not brought about by your hand. Do not torture yourself over what_ I_ caused to happen. It was _my_ doing. _I_ baited them._ I_ failed to beat them. This is my failing. Not yours."

"But-"

"Aragorn, no. You must not blame yourself, I will not allow it. I do not place any blame on you or on any other of our allies. You did the right thing in coming here. Your attack on Minas Tirith could not have been better planned and was, regardless of what was lost, a success. You have done what we set out to do. We are in Minas Tirith. You are King of Gondor now. This is a great triumph. Be glad for it."

"How can I when so much has been-? There are so many dead, killed because of my orders."

"Such is the burden of being King."

"Then I do not want it," the man snarled bitterly. "It's not worth it. For a title."

"You speak out of grief."

"Yes, I do! Because that is all that has come of this! How much better off are we now? So we have a city in our possession. So what? It is meaningless compared to what has been sacrificed."

Legolas shook his head against the pillow. "Do not say such things. If you do then you are dishonouring the memories of all the good men and women who died for your cause. Be proud of what they have done and do all that you can to make it a price worth paying."

"There is nothing now that could make it worth it."

"Yes, there is. One final thing." Aragorn's eyes met his guardian's for the very first time and he found them filled with pride and meaning. Slowly, the bleary blue gaze drifted downwards and paused at Aragorn's pocket. "You know of what I speak. Your greatest victory lies at hand. Complete it and make everything that has been lost worth it. If you do nothing, if you sit and wallow in your misery then it would all have been for nothing. And that I cannot abide."

Aragorn's hand moved down to where the golden band still rested in his pocket, so nearly stolen from him in battle. He realised that sitting here with Legolas he had forgotten all about the powerful object belonging to Sauron himself, the first time in a long time that he had been unaware of its thrumming presence against him. It was the representation of the purest Evil and it was what had driven him onwards, ever since it had nearly been taken from him by a clueless cannibalistic Wildman many years ago in his youth. If the Ring perished he knew, somehow, so would Sauron. The Dark Lord's potent magic ever oozed from the gold, at times threatening to corrupt him, at others promising to help him. He had never yet fallen into its trap though. He had ever been strengthened by the knowledge that it provided him with a power that the Dark Lord of Mordor feared above anything else.

Legolas detested the Ring. He had made that clear on the rare occasions that they had spoken of it. Its evil was like a living, breathing menace that drowned out the good in a person and smothered it in Darkness. Or perhaps, Aragorn idly mused, his guardian was simply afraid of it. Arathorn had known what he had carried but he had not feared it so. His father must have carried it with him for decades and Aragorn had been none the wiser. He had sought out the protection of the Rangers, had hidden away, avoided confrontation with the Shadow whenever possible, seeking to preserve the line of Kings and keep safe their greatest treasure.

And to Aragorn, what had he gifted? Legolas. How had his father thought that one Elf would be strong enough to bear this burden alongside him? He had gotten himself an entire shield of Rangers, he had the luxury of being idle, too afraid to do what he knew in his heart had to be done. He had hidden away, pathetic, waiting for another to take up the burden and do the right thing. Aragorn was angry at his father for this poor, cowardly decision. No matter how much he admired Legolas, he had always known that one person would not be enough. And Legolas had known it too. He had gone out of his way to surround them with people. First Kinnale and the Rangers, then the Rohirrim and the Men of Gondor with who Aragorn's destiny laid. He had even let Jecha and his questionable band into the fold even when he thought it was a bad idea to make allies of such unpredictable people. Legolas had spent years forging his own shield around them almost without Aragorn noticing what he was attempting. And it was a good shield, stronger than his father's had ever been. The Rangers were like brothers to him, as the Rangers of his youth had been like family.

But now it was all coming apart. The lines of defence were broken. His family had fallen to pieces. And now, he was losing the closest thing he had to a father. He could have used the Ring to help him. He was sure that he could master the magic if he poured all his concentration into it. He could heal Legolas. After all, the Ring was of the same magic as the Wraiths, wasn't it? If anything could bring his mentor back from the Shadow it was the One Ring.

But it was futile. Legolas would not suffer it. Aragorn knew that he would rather fall to darkness than be touched by the black magic of the Shadow. And who could blame him really? Legolas was convinced that the Ring was evil pure and could not be safely mastered by Man. Indeed, Aragorn thought that the Elf would slay him on the spot for even suggesting such a cure.

It was hopeless.

With this terrible reality in his mind, Aragorn laid down at the side of his guardian and cried. He knew he should be strong but he could not bear it any longer. He'd have given the Ring to Sauron now if it meant he could get Legolas back. But that was not an option. Not only could he not trust in the Shadow to make such a bargain and uphold it, but Legolas would never allow such a deal to take place in the first place. He would declare unequivocally that he would rather die a thousand deaths than be beholden to the Darkness and Aragorn knew that he would have been right.

How unfair life had been. He had been stripped of his mother before he was even old enough to know her and then his father had been taken from him. In the wake of his grief he had found himself with Legolas, his unwanted guardian. And the moment he had taken to trusting Legolas, he too was taken from him. How much more did he have to suffer? Was this really what it meant to be king? To rule over Men, did one have to be alone?

**OIOI**

The day dragged onwards and Legolas spent most of it dozing. With no pain relief available, he focused his mind on ignoring the pain. Such meditation was vital to the survival of any warrior in Mirkwood and Legolas had had his fair share of practice over his years beneath the Great Forest's high canopies. It was a draining and for the most part fruitless task but it had to be done otherwise he might have lost his mind in the fog of his agony and that could not be allowed. He was not so weak as to lose himself entirely.

Aragorn remained at his side. Sometimes he cried, most of the time he sat silently, staring intently at his guardian as if every moment were the last he would look at him. Legolas said nothing of it, assuming that his ward needed the time to come to terms with what would soon come to pass. Who was he to deny the King of Gondor anything?

The poison of the Wraiths was still battling with his grievous injuries for supremacy. Which would kill him first? He could feel the war raging inside of him, ripping him apart. He didn't know which was worse. The agony of the open wound marring his torso or the deeply embedded spells of the Nazgul, burning his body and pressing his soul ever further down. Combined they were powerful and he knew that he could not beat them nor how long he could keep them at bay as he was currently doing. He would have known that he was failing even if Valon had not stated it to be so when first he had opened his eyes.

"Do you need anything?" Aragorn asked quietly after a long time in silence. The words broke Legolas' meditation and he startled a little on the bed at the sound. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No, Aragorn," the Elf mumbled, more tired than he ever remembered feeling. "There is nothing."

Nothing. Nothing at all he could do. Never before had the Son of Arathorn felt so utterly helpless. He just sat there, doing nothing, watching his guardian die. It was torturous. Every spasm of pain that wracked the Elf's slight frame sent a pang of pain and guilt rushing through him in turn. Legolas was keeping stoically under control by sheer force of will, Aragorn knew, and the effort it took was costing him greatly. Better warriors Aragorn had seen down in the healing halls crying out their agonies to the helpless healers in an attempt to make themselves feel better. But not Legolas. Never would Legolas be reduced to that. Legolas remained composed and silent as he ever was. And Aragorn wanted to tell him that it was all right to cry out if it would help ease his suffering even minutely but he did not know how to broach the subject and he feared that Legolas would laugh at him or just get upset at the suggestion so he held his tongue and simply watched in respectful silence as his guardian fought.

Valon came by at noon but did not linger with them long. He shot Aragorn a poignant look as he left, perhaps fearing that the end was coming. Aragorn stubbornly ignored him. With his determination cemented into his mind, his mantra of 'Legolas will be fine' was back in his head and he clung to it as tightly as he clung to the hand of his mentor.

Little more than an hour after the healer's departure, Legolas went to struggle up into a sitting position, gasping at the effort it took. Startled by the sudden and unexpected movement, Aragorn got to his feet, ready to run for help if needed.

"Legolas?" Seeing that his guardian's glazed eyes were fixed upon the cracked ceiling as though seeing something that his mortal eyes could not, Aragorn glanced upwards in concern and asked, "What is it? Legolas, what's wrong?" He feared that Legolas was beginning to hallucinate, such was the look of joy on his face. There was no joy to be found within this room so Aragorn knew it must be some evil.

Propped up on his elbows, Legolas craned his neck further. Then he sighed a deep sigh of pleasure and momentarily let his eyes drift closed. "Thank you," he whispered, seemingly to no one in particular.

"Legolas?" Aragorn was growing more concerned.

Slowly, Legolas opened his eyes and turned with a smile to look at his ward. "I never thought I would gaze upon them again," he said, still in a rather dreamy fashion. "What a great blessing that I have been proven wrong."

Thinking that perhaps he had missed something with the first glance, Aragorn looked upwards again but saw nothing but a plain white ceiling, slightly water-stained and cracked with age and neglect. He saw nothing that would incite the kind of wonder now openly displayed on Legolas' face.

"Gaze upon what?" the man asked softly, not wanting to break the bubble of wonder that Legolas was currently enjoying if it brought him some peace.

Legolas shot him a gaze that suggested that he thought the man must have gone quite mad and then sighed again and threw back his head as though basking. "The stars," he breathed deeply in relief. "Never after the blanketing of the skies by the Shadow did I think I would have a chance to look again upon their splendour."

"The stars?" This time, Aragorn's glance at the ceiling was unnecessary but he did it anyway, perhaps because he wished that he saw what Legolas was seeing. "We're indoors, Legolas. And it is daytime," he told his guardian gently.

The Elf frowned at this, as though not understanding the truth that was being told him. He squinted up at the ceiling, seeming to want to prove Aragorn wrong. He could not though for he was being told the truth. Sweat trickled down his temple and he went to wipe it away before he realised that he couldn't hold up his body with just one arm. Indeed, above him now he only saw the white stone from which the city was constructed. It crashed down on him, this truth that there was no peace, not even from above. Nothing had changed. The stars remained veiled to him and his chest ached with the realisation.

"I-I could have sworn-" he uttered somewhat forlornly to himself.

Aragorn reached out to him and aided him in lying back down. "It's all right. Just rest. You have to rest."

"Yes," the Elf sighed, shutting his eyes in exhaustion as his ward tucked the blankets around him to preserve the warmth. "Yes. Ah, Aragorn, to rest beneath the stars-What I wouldn't give. Just like in times gone by." He looked then to his ward, who was staring at him with a curious mix of sympathy and terrible fear. Forcing a smile in the hope that it might calm the man a little, Legolas laid his head back. "I am sorry that you have never had the joy of sleeping under the stars."

"So am I."

"There is nothing better. To watch those tiny specks of shimmering light adorning the heavens as you sit in good company on cool, fresh grass, comforted by the certain knowledge that no one can ever be alone in the presence of such ancient splendour. So often we used to pass the time in Mirkwood doing thusly and we rejoiced in the luxury and mourned for it when we were forced to reside beneath the thick canopies in protection of our home. I have told you before of this, yes?"

"No, never."

Legolas chuckled softly, considering himself remiss for overlooking such an important part of his ward's tuition. He had busied himself with the history of Men, what little of it he had bothered to learn, and of weapons' training and geography. All along he had missed a vital part that no self-respecting Elven tutor would ignore. Everyone should know of the stars and he found himself wondering why he had ever been reluctant to speak of pleasures past when they could have brought both him and the boy he had been charged with raising some modicum of peace.

"Their beauty was unsurpassed by anything else in this world, Aragorn. There was nothing more spectacular to behold. Even Men looked to the heavens and gave nightly thanks for their beauty. To bask in the starlight whilst whiling away the time-" He sighed again, remembering the good moments of his past, long since veiled by the shadow of deeds of a warrior cast into bloody exile. "How I wish you could see."

"Maybe I will one day."

"Yes, maybe."

"Hey," Aragorn grinned falsely, the action feeling so strained as to be positively hideous to behold, brutally shoving back the tears that stung his eyes and threatened to betray him, "don't lose faith in me now. One day, the world will be set right again and I will have all the chances you had to experience Arda for what it is. Is that not what you have always said?"

"Yes." Legolas smiled again, a more genuine smile than Aragorn could have hoped to conjure. Looking up into watery grey eyes, filled with such misery, he said, "There is a word in the language of the Elves, suits you very well indeed: 'Estel'."

"Oh? And what does Estel mean?"

Legolas thought upon it for a moment then smiled again, closed his eyes and murmured, "Hope. That is what you are. Estel. For so many people. And now, for me."

Aragorn didn't know what to say to this. Never had he been called anything other than 'Aragorn' by his guardian; Legolas had never adorned him with any affectionate title like his father had used: 'son', 'my dear boy'. The very best he got were sharp calls to attention. And yet all these years it seemed that had Legolas been harbouring a secret pet name for him. Estel. 'Hope'. Such a loving gesture Aragorn couldn't have learned of at a worse time. He was about to lose his guardian forever and only now was Legolas revealing himself and the depth of his parental affections towards him. It wasn't fair.

Realising that Legolas was looking at him, waiting for a reaction, Aragorn once again forced a smile, this one quivering pathetically, and said, "Estel. I like that."

"Good. My Estel." He drifted off then, only half asleep and even now very much aware that time was fast slipping away from him. He wanted to remain alert, to offer words of comfort and wisdom to his ward but he could not find the strength within himself to do so. Thwarted once again by his treacherous body. So he allowed his mind to fall away from him. He did not fear that darkness that waited to swallow him - he never had - but he regretted that he was drawn towards it. He regretted his decisions on the field of battle for it was his insistence on taking revenge upon the Mouth of Sauron for his previous taunting words that had wounded so deeply that had in the end drawn the Nazgul down on him and been his ruin. Ever had his tutors in Mirkwood cautioned that his pride would be his end. And so it was to be. Although, it was some small comfort to him that the cursed slaves of the Shadow had spent themselves chasing him rather than going after Aragorn. Had the king been struck down it would have been unbearable, far more so than his own demise.

Before falling asleep, he reminded himself of all the things he had to say to Aragorn, advice that he had been holding off on until he considered the man ready to hear it. Now he was out of time and he regretted having never addressed the important issues before. It had only been his own fear, after all, that had stayed him.

He prayed that he would yet have the opportunity to speak them.

**OIOI**

"NO! No! No! How can this be?!"

All of Mordor was quiet it seemed, stunned into silence by defeat followed by terrible fear at their lord's reaction.

"How did this happen?" demanded the Dark Lord in an almost inhuman scream ripped from the throat of his Elven host. The eight silent figures before him remained unchanged. They would not be drawn into this anger for they grieved yet for their loss. Sauron had no time for grief. He had been defeated. What he could not understand was _how_.

"Speak!" he commanded them sharply.

They did not. They could not. They were incomplete. Their greatest fear – their only fear – had come true and they did not know what to do with themselves. After their leader had fallen, they had fled Gondor in terrible pain and come swiftly back to Mordor, the Dark Lands where they were safe from the evil of the Light. They had fallen to the feet of their lord and master, not to beg for forgiveness for that, they knew, would never be given, but to lick their wounds and regroup in the presence of something safe and unyielding as the darkness.

"Speak to me! Tell me what happened."

"We were vanquished in battle," spoke one Wraith. He was not the leader. They had no leader now. They were broken, disoriented by the change of order.

So plain but it was the truth. They had met their match on the Pelennor and they had not expected it. Such an unlikelihood could never have been anticipated. Gondor should have been easily taken back from the bold but foolish forces of Light and yet now, somehow, it stood in the hands of Men and they were no longer Nine.

Even more painful than his defeat over Gondor was that Sauron knew precisely where he had gone wrong, although he hated to admit it to himself. He had underestimated the king yet again; a foolish and unforgivable error on his part. He had not taken into account the man's friends; still his most powerful advantage in Sauron's mind. And he had not even once considered that Aragorn would look to the supernatural for help. How could he not have considered the Dead of Dunharrow? True, it had always been an outside chance, an alliance almost too unlikely to even entertain, but Aragorn had been guided to the Dead and Sauron had paid the price. Never in a hundred Ages would Sauron have thought that the Human traitors who had helped him, however indirectly through their cowardice, win his previous war would have been brave enough to stand up for that which they had once turned their backs on. That took courage and despite his fury at the failure of his latest campaign against the King of Men, he had to respect that.

Still, he was disgusted with himself. He had thought it would be an easy victory. Aragorn had been at a tactical disadvantage right from the beginning; he should not have won. He had only rudimentary and limited weaponry and few truly experienced soldiers. And the Shadow had a mighty army undaunted by war and death.

And he had failed because he had grown complacent. It was a lesson hard learnt. But it was a mistake that he would not make again.

Whilst the Dark Lord was annoyed with himself for this most critical oversight, he was absolutely infuriated that his most important and loyal servants had failed him and now stood before him entirely unrepentant. Yes, they grieved for the one lost but the war was not over yet. In fact, it was just beginning. He would not be beaten again and he would make no further mistakes.

"The death of your kin shall not go un-avenged," the Dark Lord promised his waiting subjects, his hissing voice sounding impossibly loud through the thick silence. They stood in a uniformed line, still and ever-patient. "We will kill these usurpers who have broken up your ranks and win back what is ours. And Darkness shall have its reign."

They did not respond to this passionate vow of victory but Sauron felt a new calmness come over them, their passion dimming ever so slightly at the assurance. They were in agreement with him, as he had known they would be. Such creatures, impassive though they may have seemed, longed for vengeance for the death of their leader. They would crush their enemy for what had been taken from them and the Allies of Light would rue the day they ever sought to usurp the reign of the Shadow.

"Come now. We will go and rid this earth of this foul interloper once and for all."

The Dark Lord would not be scared off by the false king even though he had undeniably proven himself a greater opponent than originally thought. He would walk his lands freely and without fear, for what did the Lord Sauron have to fear? He was not going to be beaten. Not again.

**OIOI**

"Listen to me," insisted Legolas firmly despite hardly having the energy to force out the words from his constricted throat, nor the breath to make them understandable. "Listen now."

"I am listening." Aragorn opened his eyes and leaned closer to prove his attentiveness. He did not want to have to hear what Legolas had to say because he knew what this conversation would entail. Darkness had come again and the city had fallen quiet but Aragorn could find no rest knowing what lay at the end of this night. Legolas knew too; hence him forcing the conversation that Aragorn feared to have. The king's philosophy of ignoring the truth and hoping it would simply go away seemed to have worked up until now, so why force a change? As if sensing this reticence in his ward, blue eyes had fixed Aragorn with a determined stare and the man said with more honesty, "I'm listening to you, I promise."

"Good," Legolas sighed and relaxed a little at the reassurance. This would be hard enough as it was without having to contend with the man's inattention. He reached out to take Aragorn's hand and held on tightly, pleased to find that his ward gripped back just as firmly.

But now that he had Aragorn's attention, he found that he was at a loss as to what to say. The words that had formed earlier in his mind and vowed to share with his charge had now vanished. Empty platitudes would not suffice. It was advice and reassurance that Aragorn would need to face this latest trial. But what could he say? What words would make this easier to bear? Was there anything at all? No doubt Aragorn would say no. There was nothing to be said. Legolas could not leave it as it was though. His conscience would not allow it. He wanted Aragorn to have something useful – to make up for all those years of dismissive tutoring Legolas had provided in the past. It had been so easy to work out what he wanted to say as he lay half-sleeping earlier, fully aware of what awaited him on the other side of dusk which at the time had seemed sufficiently far away to return order to his mind. Now, when he actually had to come out with the words though, it seemed all but impossible; he did not want to speak them.

Legolas was no coward when it came to death; even his own. He would conquer this fear and give his entrusted companion all he needed to be a good king and a good man. That was his last lesson.

So, clearing his throat, Legolas forced a smile and said, "I am so very proud of you. Arathorn would have been so proud also. He would have loved you, would have loved the person you have become."

Aragorn shook his head, eyes already glistening with tears. The mention of his father angered him for some inexplicable reason. He didn't want to hear about the man who had abandoned him – willingly or otherwise – in his youth, not from his guardian who now suffered because of Arathorn's selfishness.

"Listen to me, Aragorn, please," pressed Legolas upon seeing his ward's wavering strength. "Trust yourself always. Never doubt your instincts, they will always lead you true. Trust in what your heart says and lead your life according to its will. Gondor's people's faith in the Crown has been shaken, but not irreparably broken. They will be reticent to follow you as king at first, especially in the wake of Denethor's misguided rule over them. But be persistent. Do you understand? Treat them well. Treat all as equal. Love, protect and respect them and they will reward you with their trust in turn. Once they learn to love and honour their king, their respect for the Crown will follow. Do all you can to unify them. Forgive the deeds done by some in times of desperation, even though many will seem impossible to forgive. Under the banner of the king…you…will-"

Legolas' eyes fell shut and he ceased briefly in his advice, his strength waning as he rode through a fresh assault of pain. Aragorn lifted their joined hands higher and pressed them against his own chest, as though the feel of his own strong heart beating would inspire strength in his guardian.

It took a while for the Elf to recover himself. He lay panting for breath for a few minutes then his breathing slowed to a more normal level and his eyes opened, struggling this time to focus on the man next to him. Nevertheless, he smiled weakly and gave Aragorn's hand a quick squeeze of reassurance.

"It's all right," he soothed breathlessly, attempting and failing to reach out to touch his ward's face. He wanted so much to soothe away that awful frown of grief. He could not bear to think that he was the cause of such sorrow.

"You will have much-"

"Don't," Aragorn pleaded sadly, shifting slightly closer. He swiped at the tears falling down his cheeks and tried again, "Don't speak right now. You don't have to-"

"Yes. I do. I do." Again Legolas struggled against the combined efforts of the pain and the poison but he was determined. More now than ever before. "You will have much to contend with in the first few years. Your strength will be tested every way imaginable. There will be enemies all around you – without and within. First, you must establish who among them can be trusted. Surround yourself with the knowing, not just the eager to please, such people will only lead you astray and destroy the public faith in you. Take counsel wherever you can. Do not sniff at the opinions of others even if they are at odds with your own. Advice from those around you will be invaluable to you, never dismiss it out of hand or it will be your undoing."

Once more, Legolas halted, taking a moment to gather his breath and his thoughts. Aragorn took the time to divest his face of tears once more. This was harder than he could ever have imagined. He knew he should be grateful for all Legolas was doing for him in his final hours. This advice was important. But he could not find it within himself to take it all in and be appreciative. It was too hard.

"All of this- This is-" Legolas shook his head against the pillow. He was finding it hard to string sentences together now. His mind was growing sluggish. So he gave up on common sense and smiled grimly. "I am sorry, Aragorn."

"For what?" sniffed the man.

"This. I- I know I promised-"

"Don't. Don't say that. I know this is not your will. You would have kept your word were you able," smiled Aragorn weakly. It was a pathetic attempt at levity but Legolas humoured him with a small, fleeting smile. "Just…stay with me. Don't give up."

Legolas choked out a laugh at this. "That promise I cannot…make."

"Yes, you can. Whatever happened to 'Elves are immortal'?"

"Invulnerable to the passage of time, yes, but not exempt from this Darkness. Even with the best physicians of the past- I know you are sad…angry…but please, do not blame me."

"Why should I blame you?"

"I have failed in my word, I know. You have to promise me something."

"If I can."

"Do not give in. Fight this Evil with everything you have. But do it smartly. Do not seek revenge for this unfortunate act against me. It would be your end if you succumb to fury. Be smart about the Dark Lord. Show him what the Light is capable of. Do not fear him. You are better than he, you know it. Face him and destroy him," Legolas told him firmly, although these words he feared more than any to utter. He had always been torn over Aragorn's duty, ever since Elrond's prophetic warning in Rivendell. The wise Elven Lord had been convinced that in the battle with Sauron, Aragorn would meet his end and Darkness would rule Arda forevermore with his falling. The Lord of Imladris had spoken at the time of Aragorn as naught but a necessary sacrifice for the greater good and Legolas could never bear to think of Aragorn that way. He had become fond of the man. All that unease about having someone in his care had melted away years ago and given way to a respect and affection he had never anticipated feeling again. He remembered well the feelings he had had for his own children, long since lost to him. His love for Aragorn was perhaps not quite so potent but it was a close thing. And love was a strong force to contend with.

"I will do all I can, I swear it," Aragorn promised fervently.

"I know you will."

Before Legolas could continue a soft knock came from the door. The call went unanswered but the door creaked open all the same.

"May we come in for a moment?" asked Eomer, who peered into the room anxiously.

For a long moment, Aragorn simply stared at his guardian, unable to think of the answer. But finally he silently nodded his consent and the door opened fully and Eomer entered, followed by Janor, Ciaran, Kalub, Jecha and Faramir, who came in single-file, each taking a glimpse at the bed as they passed and then bowing their heads in sorrow.

"What do you want?" Aragorn asked wearily of them. He did not particularly want intruders upon his peace. He wanted this final time alone with Legolas.

Legolas, however, was somewhat more diplomatic. He finally found the strength to raise his hand and touched it to Aragorn's hair with a smile. In a whisper, he assured, "It's all right."

It was Jecha who answered the king's question with false cheer. "We just came to see how you are, Legolas." It was a lie. They knew how the Elf was because Valon had informed them before they all came here. To prepare them. But at least the lie was something to break the ice.

No one commented upon that. Aragorn bowed his head even lower, eyes on his guardian, as if not wanting to look away for even a moment in case the Elf simply faded away before his eyes. He did not care for the others in the room. They were meaningless to him now.

The Elf's slightly unfocused blue gaze drifted almost idly across them and when he reached the end of the ragged line, a small smile graced his lips. There stood Eomer, looking saddened at the duty he had come here to perform. Whatever fractures had existed between their tenuous friendship seemed not to matter now. This was the end and there was a degree of sadness to that terrible finality despite all that had come before. After all, Eomer still felt he owed Legolas much. He had restored Eowyn to Rohan's people and that was no small deed. Sitting with his ailing sister after her liberation from Helm's Deep, Eomer had made a silent promise to himself that he would ever seek to honour the debt he owed the Elven prince. Now, he felt as if he had failed. Failed not just Legolas but his sister also, for now both lay at death's door and there was nothing the man could do to change either fact. How cruel the fates were, that they messed with the lives of great warriors so and took from the world those who deserved to live.

"Thank you for coming," Legolas said, although Aragorn noticed that his voice was quieter, less steady than it had been before. He was tiring. The healer had said that it was likely that Legolas would slip away as he slept. It seemed like the best possible way for a warrior to leave the land of the living, and a mercy that such warriors were seldom granted. But now Aragorn feared it. Every blink of the familiar, comforting blue eyes could be the last and he could barely stand that knowledge. It was too much to endure.

"Of course we came," Janor told him with a smile that almost looked genuine. "How could we not? You are our friend after all."

"Friend?" Again Legolas smiled, a bigger gesture this time and filled with something akin to relief. "That is well."

"Is there nothing we can do for you, Legolas?"

"No. I fear not." Legolas looked up when the sudden sound of bitter sobbing filled the air. His features softened in sympathy and he closed his eyes for a long moment, hurt that he was causing these people who dubbed themselves his friends such pain. "Do not cry, Ciaran," he murmured but upon opening his eyes found that his words had little effect. The young Ranger was being comforted by Janor. No doubt this reminded him too much of the demise of his father. It made Legolas' heart plummet. Such memories would never leave the young man. He looked up at Aragorn to find crystal tears working their way down his face. He felt the same pain as Ciaran, just as acutely, no doubt, although he had not displayed it quite as blatantly as the young Ranger felt comfortable doing. Feeling sorry beyond words that Aragorn had to endure this, Legolas recaptured his hand and squeezed in reassurance. A simple nod of the head was all he received in turn from Aragorn. Then, he turned back to the others and held out his free hand. "Come, Ciaran."

It was with great reluctance, and a gentle little shove from Janor, that Ciaran finally came forward. Halting footsteps bore him towards the bed where Legolas lay.

"Come."

Truthfully, Ciaran did not know what he was expecting. He imagined that he would be frightened, being so close to someone he knew dying. Nerves fluttered in his stomach but they disappeared the moment Legolas' cool hand stretched out and touched his arm. He was drawn to the bed and sat down opposite Aragorn, who raised his head only briefly to see what was going on around him but made no attempt to acknowledge the young Ranger. Legolas smiled at him and it didn't appear the same ghastly smile he had forced when they had first come in. It was softer, more sincere and almost…apologetic.

"Do not be afraid," the Elf said softly, although Ciaran wasn't sure whether the quiet tones were to soothe him or whether Legolas just didn't have the strength to talk louder. "You will be fine. Look to Janor. He will take care of you, I have no doubt."

Ciaran nodded shortly, his eyes blurring with fresh tears. Legolas had never been his official guardian. Technically, that honour belonged to Janor as Kinnale's second in command of the Rangers. And yet, he had looked up to Legolas, had been close to him, mostly because of his friendship with Aragorn, but also because of Legolas' friendship with Kinnale. His father had always spoken very highly of the Elven prince, even when others had not. Ciaran had always trusted and valued his father's opinion above all others, so he was naturally drawn to Legolas. And Legolas had fought hard for Kinnale's life and for Ciaran's sanity. He had been the one who pulled him back from his grief and rage, when he was intent on revenge and unwilling to listen to reason. He owed Legolas much. To lose him now was painful more so than he could ever have imagined.

"I need you to do something for me," Legolas said now, his voice falling even quieter.

"Anything."

Legolas' eyes flitted in Aragorn's direction. "Take care of him for me." He smiled again, in emphasis, daring Ciaran to challenge him now.

"I will. I promise."

"Good." His hand dropped back onto the blankets. His strength was waning, he knew. The poison had all but consumed him by now. It would not be long.

"I promise." Ciaran leaned forward and rested his forehead against Legolas' chest, feeling the soft rising and falling of stuttering breaths. "I'm sorry," he cried, tears slipping from his eyes and dampening the Elf's shirt.

"Do not be sorry."

"Ciaran, come on." Janor stepped forward and laid his undamaged hand on Ciaran's shaking shoulder. He was a little concerned about the young man hurting Legolas further, although the Elf showed no outward signs of increased pain at the hug. "Come." He eased the young Ranger up to his feet, careful not to jostle his injured arm, still secured in a sling against his body, nodded to Legolas in appreciation for his words of comfort and led the younger man away towards the door. He did not want Ciaran to be present when the inevitable finally happened. It did not seem right after all the man had suffered through already. He didn't dare look back at Legolas for tears glistened in his own eyes. Secretly, he was pleased that he had been spared from saying his own goodbye.

Silence fell upon the room and Legolas did not like it. It gave him space to think upon his injuries and all that he was leaving behind and that only increased the pain. He wanted those with him to speak again, to offer false platitudes even, but he couldn't find voice to ask this of them. He was so dreadfully weary; it plucked and tugged at him, willing him to fall into sleep. But he did not want to. He feared to.

"We should leave you to rest," Jecha finally, mercifully, broke the hush although they were not the words Legolas wanted to hear.

No forced joviality any more. There was nothing to be joyful about and there was no use in pretending amongst those who remained. Legolas simply nodded in return. He was tired and growing more weary with each passing moment. He couldn't keep this up much longer. He wanted now to fall asleep and remain that way until the pain had gone away regardless of the price of peace. How quickly things could change, he thought. He had always thought himself at peace with what might happen to him in the end. At times, he had even longed for it. Now that that feeling of longing had returned within his chest, he felt right again, like he always had. It was a relief. He was not afraid anymore.

One by one they came up to his bedside, like a procession, and wished him a good rest. They all looked so sad, on the brink of tears. Only Faramir did not approach him. He stayed a respectful distance away and left first. Not only did he barely know the Elven prince, but he even now blamed Legolas for his father's death. He had only come for Aragorn, out of respect for the king.

Legolas smiled at each in turn, trying to be grateful for what they said. It was hard to bear, listening to their final words. But he did bear it, as stoically as he could, for their sake.

Aragorn was not as strong though. He could not stand to hear the words, or see the pitying looks on their faces as they passed. He just couldn't. So, he stood up in disgust and walked away to the other side of the room where he was somewhat sheltered from it all. He faced the wall, head bowed to hide his tears. As his friends filed out of the room past him, they each touched his shoulder, as if it would covey comfort, but it had very little effect on him. He let all their words wash over him. Stubbornly, he refused to be comforted by anyone. He wanted to be miserable. He had every right, after all.

"Do something for me," Legolas whispered weakly to Eomer when he approached the bed.

"If I can, my friend."

The man leaned down close, almost sitting on the edge of the bed so that Legolas would not have to waste too much of his precious energy. He snagged the Elf's hand when it came up imploringly in search of his.

"Take care of him." Eomer didn't need an explanation as to who 'him' was. He glanced back in Aragorn's direction, taking in the stooped demeanour of his grieving ward. "He will need you. All of you. Do not leave him by himself. He needs…guidance."

"I understand," smiled the Rohan man kindly, tightening his hold on Legolas' hand. "I will do all I can. You have my word." Legolas laid his head back down, sighing in sheer relief. "Rest now, my friend. I will see you again soon."

"Not too soon, I hope," Legolas warned with a weak smile. "Thank you. Friend?"

Eomer squeezed Legolas' shoulder carefully, blinking back the blurriness that sprung, unwanted, into his eyes. "You are welcome, friend." He got up then, carefully laying Legolas' hand back down on the bed. For a moment, he could not take his eyes off the Elf. It didn't seem right that Legolas should be here now, taken down just as his plan was coming together and when Aragorn would need him the most to face the coming dark. Finally, he stepped away and paused behind Aragorn. "If you need anything, I'll be waiting nearby," he said softly.

Aragorn did not reply, not even a nod of acknowledgement. Understandingly, Eomer stepped away and left them to it, closing the door behind him.

And suddenly, Aragorn was left alone with Legolas again. Silence, deep and horrible, filled the room. Only Legolas' strained breathing broke the hush. For a long moment, Aragorn stayed where he was, finding solace in his corner, detached from what was happening behind him. Legolas did not summon him, seeming to understand that his ward needed time. Eventually, the man came around in his own time, as he always did. Slowly, he turned to face Legolas and dipped his head, as though only now realising that he really could not escape the truth. He could not hide from what was happening.

Legolas smiled at him weakly and stretched out his arm to his young ward. Just the two of them.

Aragorn came to him with reluctance. He sat on the bed again and took his guardian's hand without being asked.

"It's all right," whispered Legolas, tugging gently at the man's arm until he came down into a hug. "It's all right."

Aragorn pressed his face into Legolas' chest and cried again. "I can't-Don't do this. Don't leave me."

"Shh," Legolas soothed, stroking at the man's dark hair kindly. "You are going to be fine."

"No. I won't do this. Not without you."

"Yes, you will. Just as you must."

"I can't." His words were muffled by the fabric of Legolas' shirt but they broke the Elf's heart to hear. "I will do nothing without you. Let him come for me! Let him take me! I care not. I welcome it!"

"Do not speak this way. Do not…let him win."

Aragorn cried. He could do nothing else. This could not be happening. The Shadow was winning already. It was inevitable now that he should lose to it.

"Legolas?"

"I am…here." Each breath was becoming torturous now. How desperately he wanted to let go, to give into the exhaustion, to sleep. But not yet. Aragorn was not ready. "My son."

The word broke Aragorn's heart all over again. Never once had Legolas addressed him thusly, although he realised now as the word was spoken that he had felt like the Elf's son for years now. But he could never have imagined that Legolas would think of himself as the man's father. He had never given any such indication. And now, when he finally revealed his heart, it was too late. It wasn't fair. Anger welled in his heart, almost drowning him in its intensity.

"Why?" the young man cried despairingly. His hands clutched at Legolas' shirt, not willing to let go. Beneath his cheek he could feel every heaving breath, growing further and further apart, harder and harder to force through struggling lungs. His guardian was dying. It was almost the end. The realisation hit him with such immense force that it knocked the breath from his body. Legolas was dying and there would be no steadfast mentor to guide him through the difficult times ahead. How he had wasted the time. His mind went back to all the times he had dismissed his guardian, the times he had been so furious as to ostracise him. So many hours apart when he should have been making the most of every moment. And now there was nothing he could do to make it right. Legolas was dying because of him, because of who he was and what he had been charged to do.

"It's…going to be…all right," Legolas forced out. "You…will be…all right. Be…strong. My…son."

"Don't you dare leave me," Aragorn warned, sitting up quickly. "You once told me that you would follow me no matter where I led, into the very fires of Mordor itself. Well, as king, I command that you stay with me. Understand me? I command you. Legolas? I command you!"

"As you…command…" Legolas smiled weakly up at him, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, "so shall I…obey."

**To Be Continued…**


	74. Grief

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 74 – Grief**

Eomer paced outside the room. It was late, gone midnight, and he should have retired to his own quarters to rest but he could not. He knew he would not be able to sleep anyway. Besides, it felt wrong to leave whilst inside Aragorn remained on vigil within.

He looked to the closed door. No sound came from inside but that meant nothing. Legolas would not be crying out loud no matter what agonies he was facing. He paced again, back and forth. Several times already he had considered going in, offering support, a shoulder to cry on, but there was nothing he could do or say to make this easier for the young king and he felt like he would only be in the way if he intruded now. So he settled for waiting impatiently outside for some news from inside.

"Anything yet?"

Eomer looked around at Jecha as he approached. "No nothing."

The Easterling sighed heavily and immediately and gracefully moved to sit down on the floor. He had no need for the restless pacing that Eomer had to rely on to keep his peace. "Drink?" he asked, reaching inside his scarlet robes for a flask that looked suspiciously like it had at some point belonged to the Rangers.

"Thank you."

Taking a long drink, Eomer marvelled once more at the potency of the liquid brewed out in the wilds by the Rangers of the North. He exhaled a long breath at downing the liquid. And although he liked the way it burned his throat, it didn't help his anxiety. But then he supposed that it wouldn't until he had drunk considerably more of it.

"How much longer do you think?" the Rohan man asked uselessly.

"I have no idea."

"You know, I have never liked Legolas particularly, but I would not have wished this upon anyone. I would not wish him death."

"No. Nor I."

"I was thinking of going in to offer my support – but I cannot think of what to say to him."

"There is nothing to say. They are like father and son. One cannot justify to a grieving son the death of a father."

Eomer looked down at the robed man, noting dark eyes directed at the floor as he spoke. "You speak as if from experience."

Jecha raised his eyes and Eomer could imagine a wavering smile on his lips beneath the safety of his mask. "Who hasn't lost someone beloved in this war?"

The tall Rohan commander released another breath and fell against the wall, resting his head back against the cold Gondorian stone. So far, this kingdom was not all he had hoped for. He slid down so that he was crouched on the floor next to the Easterling. "I'm tired of fighting. I know that that is not a proper thing for a warrior to speak of-" Jecha waved this away, dismissing the notion that it was inappropriate to voice such in their profession. "I just want to return to the kingdom of my ancestors, away from all of this war, and live a life of peace. Maybe do some farming, get the crops on my land growing again; start rebuilding the place I grew up in."

"You are fortunate," Jecha said, taking back the flask and replacing it in his robes without touching the alcohol himself. Eomer wondered whether he kept it on his person simply to appease other people. "I have no such home to return to."

"That's right. You are a deserter amongst your people."

Jecha chuckled at the bluntness of this assessment and nodded. "A traitor. Were I to return to my home I think I would be executed for treason. So I have no problem with dying in this war. At least my death would be worth something."

"Cheery."

"Indeed."

**OIOI**

He couldn't move for the longest time. Physically couldn't move his body. All his limbs were completely numb, as though his blood had stilled in his veins and would not start pumping again. He just sat there, staring into the darkness, not even seeing the blackness. It felt as though his whole world had fallen away and he was just stranded in a void, unable to escape that which bound him.

There were things to do. His body might have been motionless but his mind was whirling with so many things that he was having trouble keeping track. Menial things. Pointless, it seemed. And yet they were cast into sharp relief in the silence, given disproportionate importance. But, even as the urgency in his mind grew, his body remained stiff and immobile. All will to live had deserted him when his guardian had ceased to breathe a little over an hour ago. All will to do anything had left him. So he just sat there, waiting for feeling to return, waiting for the pain to hit him. He was expecting it. He knew it would come and that it would knock him down in its intensity. Nothing to do but wait. It felt like that was all he had been doing for days now. Waiting.

Aragorn heaved a sigh and finally bent forwards, almost folding himself in half, the first movement he had made in an hour. It brought him closer to Legolas and he startled at seeing the pale face so close to him. He sat up straight again, his eyes never leaving the body laid at his side. Legolas almost looked peaceful laid there on the bed. His wounds were still obvious, wrapped in bloody bandages that had ceased to be useful some time ago, but his face had lost its tight look of pain. His eyes stood half-open but glazed and empty, no more spark of life shining in them. His mouth stood slightly open from the last words that had left the thin lips, the pledge he had made to Aragorn. Somehow, he no longer looked real.

Cautiously, Aragorn reached out his hand and touched his fingers to the waxy face. Legolas did not yet feel cold. Had it not been for the vacant look on his features, Aragorn could have believed that he could have sat up right then and spouted some more words of wisdom to his ward.

But Legolas did not move. He remained unchanged.

Finally, Aragorn felt his arms and legs beginning to work again. He shifted on the bed, eyes still locked on Legolas' form. Surely this wasn't real. Nothing about this felt real. From the moment he had discovered Legolas buried beneath the bodies of their enemies slain in battle, to this moment here sitting with the prince's lifeless body. It felt like a dream, a nightmare he had walked in long ago. He wondered idly when the truth would set in. He wondered how painful it would be. He wondered how he would survive it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He didn't care that it was pointless. He just felt like he had to say it. And he was sorry. Wracked with guilt for what he had done, for the mistakes he had made, for things not said. "I am sorry."

Tears trickled down his face, falling to the blankets beneath him, those that covered the still Elven form. They fell silently. He made no other sound and that seemed to suit the atmosphere. Legolas had not panicked at the end. He had not screamed in pain as some soldiers might have, he had not begged to live, or begged for forgiveness for the sins of his life. He had been quiet, refined, offering quiet condolences and advice to his ward. Right up until the last breath had rattled out of his tortured lungs he had been calm, stalwart, in control of himself. Just as he had lived his life. And it seemed right to Aragorn, that that was how it ended.

Carefully, Aragorn finally disengaged his hand from Legolas' and moved the stiff limbs and laid them across the Elf's chest. He hesitated only slightly in this task, worried irrationally that his actions might cause his guardian harm. A small, trembling smile came to his lips at the absurdity. Legolas would have admonished him for such thinking had he been privy to it.

Once he had arranged his guardian into a more respectful position, Aragorn sat back with a shaky exhale of breath. Legolas would not want to have been looked upon in a state of disarray and surely the people of Gondor would want to come and pay their respects eventually to their fallen comrade. No doubt, Aragorn thought, that people would also wish to speak with him, to offer condolences and words of support and encouragement, to bolster his spirits such as was the way with Men. He would accept such sympathies stoically for that was what Legolas would have wanted from him. Never had the Elf encouraged him to hide from his people. He would consider this just another step towards his position as ruling king and probably then consider his death to have been useful after all. The thought of Legolas considering such a thing repulsed Aragorn though and he wondered how he would ever be able to stomach what lay ahead.

Gingerly, Aragorn got to his feet, pleased to find that his shaky legs would support him at last. He stared for a while longer down at Legolas, fearful that this might be the last time he would look upon one he loved so dearly. But, there was much to do in Minas Tirith and he was avoiding it all. So he took a short step backwards, as though testing his fortitude. Another tear tracked down his face but he was not concerned about that. Surely no one would begrudge him his grief.

Then he backed up until he was at the door. He knew that people would be waiting outside. Jecha almost certainly would have stuck around, waiting for the inevitable. Maybe some of the Rangers too. People he knew and could trust. That was of some small comfort. He would be able to test himself again, quantify his reactions and thus prepare himself for what might be coming next when he had to confront others less close to him. He placed his hand on the cold metal of the doorknob but found that he didn't have the strength to turn it. Fear raced through him, suddenly speeding his heart. Now that it came to it, he didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay at Legolas' side and continue with the pretence that this had not happened for as long as possible. It would have been easy, he imagined, to indulge in such a fantasy. Locked up in this room alone with his guardian and mentor, no one would challenge him. True, Legolas would not have approved but what did that matter how? He turned and put his back to the door, his eyes finding the Elf lying still on the bed.

"Aragorn?"

Behind him, he felt a slight pressure on the door; someone pushing gently to try to get in. Irrationally, he resisted. Torn between staying here where it was safe and returning to where he was needed, where he was supposed to be, Aragorn closed his eyes and tried to compose himself.

"Aragorn, are you all right?"

It was Eomer, without a doubt. Surprising, that the Rohan man had stayed. He had not even been on Aragorn's list of possibilities of those out in the corridor waiting for him to emerge. A gentle knock came from the door then. Not demanding, just enquiring.

"Please, Aragorn, can you let us in? Let us help, my friend."

He let the words wash over him, let them bring him comfort. More tears leaked from his eyes and he remained pressed against the door, barring entry to the room. Not yet. He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready for this.

"Not yet," he croaked out without even realising it. "Not yet."

"All right, my friend," Eomer replied softly, understandingly. "When you're ready. We'll be here."

Aragorn slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, pulled his knees up and rested his forehead against them. His shoulders shook with his cries as he let the terrible truth wash over him once again.

It turned out that it wasn't painful as he had expected it to be, dealing with the realisation that Legolas was dead. It was agony. Pure and simple. It hurt so much that he didn't think he could stand it. He clenched his hands over his heart, wishing that such a simple action could ease the pain in his chest, but it was not that simple. Nothing could ease this agony.

He sat in silence, letting it all sink in. Reality was a cruel thing indeed. How had Legolas survived all those long years with the weight of his guilt pressing down on him as it did now on Aragorn? He still could not shake the feeling that all this was his fault. He had been the one who had begged Legolas for help him in the first place, he had been the one cursed with this burden, he had stuck with Legolas when he could just have easily of left, just walked away and gone along his own path, leaving the unwitting guardian free of the responsibility. He should have done it that first night the dream had come to him, when he had seen Legolas taken from him by the Shadow. But he had not. He had been selfish, needing the steady guidance of the Elf to bear him to his destiny. Because of him, Legolas was gone and he was all alone.

He thought back to all the times he had spoken his fears to Legolas, to all the times that his guardian had sworn allegiance to him, had promised faithfully to always be there, to follow wherever. And all the things he had done in a bid to hurt Legolas. He thought back to all the anger he had felt towards him. After his father's death, he had blamed the Elf, had hated him for taking him away from the familiar. Then he had despised Legolas for wanting to remain on the familiar road close to his home. He had tried to run away, had scared his guardian half to death in his actions and nearly gotten them both killed in the process. And then, he had chosen the ways of Men, all but forsaking the teachings of his mentor in favour of Mankind. All in all, he considered himself an unappreciative ward. And now, the ultimate insult: Legolas had died for him.

For a long hour, he cried. Cried until he couldn't cry anymore. Following the battle and the grief that nearly overwhelmed him, he was tired, exhausted, but he knew he could not find sleep. Not yet. So much to do, so many people to speak with.

Slowly, he pulled himself wretchedly up off the floor, leaned against the door for a moment to get his bearings. His eyes scanned the room. It was still dark, still night. Legolas still lay, unmoving, unchanged upon the bed. Aragorn closed his eyes but no tears slipped loose this time. There was nothing left inside him. Maybe later he could let all the grief to overwhelm him again in the hope of achieving some semblance of peace.

Reaching behind him, he turned the doorknob. Predictably, Eomer was still outside and he stepped away from the wall where he had been resting when he saw Aragorn hesitantly coming out of the room.

The king looked a mess, Eomer decided upon his emergence. His clothes were in complete disarray, still dirtied and crisp with dried blood after the battle, and tears stained his grimy cheeks. Aragorn's grey eyes were on the ground, unwilling to look upwards, but Eomer could see that they were still wet with tears.

"Aragorn?" the Rohan man said softly, stepping closer. He could not see into the room behind the king but he knew that Legolas lay dead within. Nothing else would prompt Aragorn to leave his guardian.

"He's-" Aragorn started, glancing up, but couldn't continue. He didn't need to.

"I'm sorry." Torn between hugging the man in sympathy and keeping a respectful distance, Eomer took an uneasy step forward but he needn't have worried over his decision because Aragorn stepped back away from him, fingers clenching around the doorknob. He didn't want to accept such condolences yet. "Is there anything-?" No, that was useless too. There was nothing he could do.

"I am sorry for your loss, Aragorn," Jecha said, coming forward and Aragorn nodded in appreciation. At least he didn't have to worry about Jecha attempting any awkward displays of affection. Still, the Easterling came forward and laid his hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "You must be exhausted. Let us find you a room and get you cleaned up."

Unable to think of anything at all to say, Aragorn simply nodded at this. He was tired and a slight reprieve from the duty of his kingdom would be appreciated.

"All right. Come on."

Jecha led Aragorn through the quiet hallways. It was night and most people had retired to the rooms being used as dormitories to rest before presumably starting with the clean-up in the morning. Aragorn was glad for the peace. He didn't want the attention he knew his presence would draw. Not now.

It was a sad processional that made its way sombrely through the white halls of Minas Tirith. Strange, Aragorn thought to himself, that he had worked so hard for this kingdom, fought and sent others to fight and die for it and yet he had not yet taken much notice of the Human city recaptured. The white stone had been stunning to look at from the outside, but in here the walls seemed claustrophobic, built close together in long, high narrow corridors. He had no idea where he was being led but took comfort in the fact that Jecha seemed confident of the way. A smile almost tugged at his lips at the thought that the king of Gondor didn't even know his own home.

His rooms, it turned out, were on the Seventh Level - the king's level. He felt far away from Legolas now and a pang of pain tugged at his chest but he swallowed it back, not allowing it to overwhelm him again.

"Through here," prompted Jecha, guiding Aragorn through an impressive arch and then through a set of elaborately decorated double doors. Without doubt, this was a room for a king. The Orcs had mainly inhabited the lower levels, for convenience's sake; this top level was a little neglected but remained relatively undamaged. There was no furniture in his vast rooms but a fire had been lit in the large hearth and a thick pile of furs laid in front of it would substitute a bed.

Aragorn paused in the entrance, looking around his room. It was impressive. Had he not been so numb with grief he would have almost been excited at its splendour for he had never seen the like before. As it was, he could not feel anything. So he stepped inside, aware that Jecha and Eomer lingered in the doorway, as though awaiting his signal of approval. He turned to them and offered a weak smile.

"Is there anything you need, Your Majesty?" Jecha asked formally and Aragorn wondered at the title and the sudden formality. It would take some getting used to but it was a part of him now and he could not be rid of it. After all, he had lost much for such confirmation of his lineage, to deny it would be a terrible shame.

"No. Nothing, thank you."

"Very well. We shall leave you to sleep."

Eomer seemed reluctant to leave, remaining in the doorway even as Jecha moved away. "You're sure you don't want anything?" Aragorn shook his head in response. "All right. Get some rest. We'll be close by if you need anything during the night."

"Thank you, commander," Aragorn said with a small bow of his head. Before Eomer could close the door though, a thought came to the young king and he called the Rohan man back. "Eomer, how is Eowyn? I forgot to ask."

Eomer looked genuinely surprised at the enquiry but he answered with a small smile that felt both exceptionally good and terribly wrong at the same time. "She is doing better. The healers believe she will make a complete recovery – given time."

It shouldn't have hurt to hear that wonderful news but somehow it did. Hiding his sadness that Eowyn lived whilst Legolas laid dead downstairs, the king smiled gratefully for the answer and turned away; almost like he had been doing it all his life, dismissing his subjects. Eomer took the hint and closed the door to leave his king to rest after the exhausting events of the day.

For a long while, Aragorn simply stood in the middle of the room, not sure what to do with himself. He was tired but he feared to sleep. His mind was whirling again, but this time with questions about the battle. So much must have happened during his time away from his people but he didn't have the heart to search out a report. So, he stood in the room – his room – and peeled off all of his filthy clothing. There was nothing to replace it so he picked up one of the furs and wrapped it about his cold form and went to sit down by the fire. It was warm here and he felt comfortable and drowsy, so he laid down on the flagstones, aching eyes locked on the flickering flames, and waited for sleep to claim him. Perhaps in the morning he would feel better. After all, things couldn't possibly feel worse.

**OIOI**

He woke up stiff from being still for so long after prolonged exertion. Every one of his limbs ached fiercely and he stretched slowly, being careful as the pain began to fade. Aragorn found himself laid on the stone floor, wrapped up tightly in his luxurious furs. He had slept well, long and deep. His mind was curiously fuzzy, the product of a long sleep following many days and nights awake but he found he quite liked the feeling.

He rolled over onto his back and for a moment stared at the high, vaulted ceiling, wondering whether the events he remembered were merely a terrible nightmare. But it was wishful thinking that he could not indulge in. The tear stains still covering his face and the image of his guardian lying pale and unmoving was etched into his memory. Legolas was dead.

For a long while, he laid where he was, simply thinking upon what had happened. He was confident that no one would disturb him. He recalled with perfect clarity their looks of sympathy for him the night before. How he despised sympathy. Perhaps he had learned that from Legolas, for he knew the Elf would have been just as appalled at the glances that had followed the king to his room.

As he laid there, waiting for something to prompt him to get up, Aragorn let himself think back to the one who had saved him all those years ago on the Old Forest Road. He thought upon all of Legolas' actions, his guidance, his words of comfort. To say that he would miss his companion was an understatement. Right then, he couldn't imagine even getting up off this floor. It was all too much. He was alone now, entirely and completely, no matter what anyone told him. Eomer and Faramir and Janor were good friends to him and they were good commanders in their own right, but they were not Legolas.

In his mind he travelled to Lothlorien to see Legolas' sadness in recalling to his ward his past for the first time; then to Rivendell, where he had met another Elf for the first time. He thought upon Elrond and the aloof but kindly Erestor and wondered whatever had become of them. He hoped that they still resided in their homeland, ignored by the Shadow but he doubted it. He thought about the Rangers and their reaction when Legolas had first told Kinnale about their plans. In Bree, his guardian had been distant, more so than Aragorn had ever known, wanting to prepare him for the duties that lay ahead. It was after Bree that Aragorn felt things had started to go wrong. For some unfathomable reason, their relationship had changed after their first encounter with a town of Men. Aragorn didn't know why and he had never really pressed Legolas for an answer. He would regret that for the rest of his life. There was much about his occasionally turbulent relationship with his reluctant guardian that would haunt him. And now redemption was beyond him. He would never be reunited with Legolas now.

Tears were streaming down his face now and the ceiling above him was blurred. He didn't care though. Legolas wasn't around anymore to tell him to pull himself together.

Slowly, Aragorn came around. Pulling himself from his memories, both good and bad, he shoved the furs from around him and let the coolness of the room flow over his naked body. It felt good, revived him somewhat. With some effort, he pulled himself up into a sitting position and looked about himself. It was a nice room, he realised in surprise. Fit for a king.

The fire had burned out some time ago and it made him wonder just for how long he had been sleeping. Over the large windows were long, thick drapes that would block out any sunlight were it daytime. So Aragorn gained his feet, finding his legs a little stiff for the first few steps, and walked over to the windows, whipping back the thick curtains. No light. It was night again. He had slept a whole day away.

Rubbing his mud-caked face, Aragorn stood for a minute, looking out at the scene before him. Fires burned here and there. Funeral pyres for the dead, he presumed. They were positioned a fair ways apart and were massive, indicating that they were probably the fires of the Shadow rather than the allies. He found a bitter happiness rising within him. The Shadow had stolen much. They deserved the losses sustained at the hands of Men.

Down below on the Pelennor, people were still hard at work. He could see flickering torches shining amidst the darkness. He wondered at their resilience. Many had lost family and friends, surely some of them were even hurt themselves, and yet they persevered with the task at hand, unwilling to give in.

Suddenly, guilt assailed Aragorn. Whilst his people worked, he had been up here slumbering, wallowing in his grief. It was unbecoming of a king. Or so Legolas would have chastised him had he been here.

So, Aragorn pulled on his clothing and straightened out the filthy, wrinkled garments in an effort to make himself look slightly less of a mess. He felt the soothing weight of the One Ring resting in his pocket where he had left it the night before. It had been careless, he thought now as he felt it press against his chest through the fabric of his shirt, to discard it so but he had been too distraught to care.

It had been easy, after losing Legolas to the Shadow, to distance himself from its enchantments. He hated it for failing him. He hated himself for feeling too weak to use it. He could have forced it upon Legolas, made him accept the help. He could have done it when the Elf slept through his delirium, not given a thought to what Legolas wanted. Yes, he would be despised by his guardian, but Legolas would be alive and that mattered more. The Ring was treacherous though. It had whispered to him as Legolas lay dying but never had it been overt. Something he wanted so badly, for his guardian to live, the power of the One should have been screaming at him. But it had forsaken him. He hated it for that. And yet, still he felt drawn to it. It pulled at his consciousness. It would never stop.

Pushing the pulsing call from his mind, Aragorn pulled on his jacket and went to the door. He made his way from his room and through the corridor to where he hoped people would be. Surely the commanders would be close by. He had no idea where he was going. He barely remembered being led to his room the night before. Still, it couldn't be that hard to find someone he knew and ask them about the efforts out on Pelennor.

It turned out that it was easy in the end. He simply followed the familiar voices drifting along the corridors. Recognising with ease the deep, confident tones of Eomer and Faramir, he followed the echoes down the vast corridor and found himself pulling open a large, heavy door leading into what he immediately realised had to be the throne room. This room was massive, made of shining white marble and decorated with the most intricate, detailed statues of the Men of old that Aragorn had ever seen. It surpassed the impressive house of Rivendell by far, and dwarfed Meduseld in Rohan.

Only a small group of people stood crowded close together in the room as though in conference but it was exactly who Aragorn would have expected to be there. They were stood up near where the twin thrones, one for the king and another for the ruling Steward, stood proudly, untouched by war. Aragorn recognised Eomer, Janor and Jecha immediately; although they all looked considerably cleaner and better rested than the last time he had seen them.

Standing in the tight circle with the three commanders were three men Aragorn had never seen before. He didn't even recognise them vaguely and could not place them as Ranger, Gondorian or Rohirrim and he got the impression from the three conversing commanders that they had never seen them before either.

Curious at these newcomers and what they were doing in the throne room, Aragorn stepped inside, his boots sounding loud and intrusive to him on the smooth white and black marbled floor. He approached slowly, hesitantly, and at first no one seemed to notice his entrance. Why would they? They were obviously deep in discussion about something that looked fairly serious.

"Aragorn!"

It was Faramir who raised the alarm. Aragorn had not seen him at first because he did not stand with the others but rather sat upon the tallest throne carved from a large hunk of perfect white marble; the throne of the king. Clearly, he thought he wasn't supposed to be up there because after his somewhat startled declaration of Aragorn's presence, he leapt up and hastily descended the steps, casting a quick glance at the smaller black throne sitting at the base of the steps, where he should have been sat as Steward.

The others all turned to look at him. Eomer looked startled that his king was up and about, Janor smiled thinly at him and Jecha remained typically unreadable behind his mask of silken black and crimson cloth. The other three, unknown men sized him up openly, taking in his appearance with curious, sharp eyes that seemed to miss nothing.

"Hello," Aragorn said weakly, his voice a little unsteady and gravelly from lack of use. He felt utterly out of place amongst these great, confident warriors.

Finally Eomer snapped out of his surprise and stepped forward, gesturing for Aragorn to join him in the huddle.

"Aragorn, how are you feeling?"

Aragorn ignored the question of his health and planted his eyes firmly on the three new people come amongst them, more convinced now than ever that they had not been in Minas Tirith during the battle. He hoped that his friend would catch on to his confusion as to their presence and answer the question without him having to openly ask.

They were not familiar to him and yet they looked similar to the people he knew. Kin perhaps to one of the factions of Men. All were tall and slim, all had grey eyes much like his own and each held themselves proudly. They were commanders and warriors, Aragorn knew instantly, but travellers also for they looked worn from the road. They looked too well-maintained to be Wild Men and yet he was wary. Newcomers.

Finally deciding that Eomer was not going to catch on to his silent question and provide him with an answer, Aragorn went for the direct approach.

"Who are they?" he asked bluntly, nodding towards the three men, who stood silently back a little way from the commanders, waiting it seemed for the introductions to commence.

Eomer looked back at the men, as if he had momentarily forgotten their presence. When he looked back to his king, he answered in a low voice, full of suspicion that was reflected in his eyes. "Allies. So they say." Apparently, these newcomers had not yet entirely convinced Eomer of their claims.

A wry smile crossed the face of the new man in the centre before he stepped forward, hand extended in greeting, ready to shake with Aragorn. A friendly and peaceful introduction. "Your Majesty, it's a pleasure to meet you at long last. We have heard much about you."

Somewhat uncertainly, still not quite knowing who this man and his companions were, Aragorn took the proffered hand and shook within the firm grip. "Allies?" he asked simply, still eyeing the man up sternly. He had learned the hard way to be cautious with his trust. Releasing his grip, he then asked somewhat more gruffly than he had intended, "Do you not have names?"

The man smiled again; unfazed it seemed by the king's brusque approach. Perhaps he had planned for this meeting and it was playing out just as he expected. Certainly, he was not offended. "I am Halbarad and these are my Rangers, a sample of them at least."

Taking a step backwards in surprise, Aragorn looked to Janor in confusion as though he might know the men but then turned back to the man who had spoken. "Rangers?" he finally asked coldly, overcoming his surprise. "I have no recollection of you and I have travelled long with the Rangers of the North." His eyes sough Janor again, who merely shrugged.

"We were on a different assignment and came not from Bree as Janor and his men did," answered the man, Halbarad, without missing a beat. Clearly Janor had already been grilling them on their lineage. "We patrolled in the far east; I doubt we would ever have had a chance to cross paths with you or your companions; although their deeds are legendary throughout the free lands." His grey eyes sought out Janor and smiled kindly. The leader of the Rangers did not respond and Aragorn knew instantly that Janor's loyalty remained firmly on the side of the king and not with these men who claimed to be kin.

"Hiding were you?" Aragorn didn't know why he felt such hostility to this man who came forward now proclaiming himself an ally to the cause. It seemed convenient though that he came to Minas Tirith right after the battle had been won looking for kin.

Unoffended by the jibe, Halbarad answered calmly, "We have been busy."

"Doing what exactly?"

"Did you hear about the destruction of the Corsair fleet?"

"No."

"Well, that victory belonged to the Rangers."

Aragorn looked towards Eomer again but the Rohan man just shrugged, indicating he was none the wiser than Aragorn himself. "What do you want then?"

"We come to pledge allegiance to you, King."

"Is that so?" Aragorn asked disinterestedly. "You come at a most convenient time."

Halbarad lowered his head, eyes on the floor, at the barbed remark and nodded. "Yes, we saw that you have recently been in battle with the Shadow. We regret that we were unable to aid you in the taking of Minas Tirith."

"Regret it?" Aragorn asked softly, looking around the silent room and then pinning an icy stare on Halbarad. "Hundreds of our people died in that battle."

"I apologise. But there was nothing we could have done. Besides, it seems that you are victorious."

Aragorn opened his mouth to snap out a sharp reply but he found that he couldn't find the words. It didn't matter anyhow. Nothing he could say now would change what had happened on the field of battle. What good would it do to make an enemy out of this man? Besides, Aragorn suddenly felt drained of whatever energy he had recouped during his respite. He ran his hand through his hair and made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

Without another word to the newcomers amongst them, Aragorn turned away and walked back the way he had come, back towards his rooms. Perhaps he had overestimated his strength and it was all too soon for him. He could not deal with this yet. He could barely think clearly enough as it was. Legolas still filled his thoughts and he knew that he was next to useless as he was.

Staring after his king as he left, Eomer shrugged again and turned back to Halbarad and his two stern companions. Things had not gone the way he wanted them to when these men had turned up at the Great Gate of the city. He had hoped to prepare Aragorn for this meeting before it happened, get the king on his side and then introduce the new people come amongst them. With numbers so severely depleted following the battle, the Rangers would be most welcome additions to the ranks of the Free Men of Arda. Halbarad did not seem the overly sensitive type, mercifully, and Eomer doubted that his decision as to whether or not to aid them would be overly effected by Aragorn's somewhat unusual introduction.

Nevertheless, he felt the need to apologise. "You will have to excuse our King. In the battle he lost someone very close to him. A father, almost."

Janor walked past them, telling Eomer, "I should go and check on him." His footsteps sounded loud and obvious on the hard marble and he sent a slight hint of a glare in Faramir's direction as he passed the man by. It had not escaped his notice that the Steward had been out of his place sitting on the throne of the king and it irritated him that Faramir had taken advantage of Aragorn's lack of attention over the slip in protocol.

He found Aragorn wandering the halls aimlessly; perhaps lost or perhaps just not knowing what he was aiming for in the first place.

"Aragorn?"

"What was that? An ambush?" Aragorn demanded straight away, whirling around to face the Ranger.

"No, not at all. They arrived at the First Gate this afternoon quite unexpectedly and requested an audience with the rumoured King of Gondor. We knew you were resting so Eomer and Faramir decided to meet with them first, find out what they wanted and then report to you when you woke. He didn't expect you to be up and about so soon."

"I couldn't sleep anymore." It was true. He might have felt exhausted in body and spirit but his mind was restless, as it had been when he had lain down the night before. He didn't think he could stand returning to bed now. "I would like a report on the progress of the clean-up."

"That can be arranged."

"And I want-I want to be taken back to Legolas."

Janor was surprised by the request and made no effort to conceal it. And from the look on his ragged face, Aragorn felt the same. It had hurt to speak the name aloud again so soon. He couldn't quite believe that Legolas was no longer here with him, that he would never hear the disapproving voice of his mentor ever again.

"I can do that for you," said the Ranger softly, laying his good hand against Aragorn's shoulder and guiding him away from the throne room.

Legolas, it turned out was in the same room that Aragorn remembered, although things had been straightened out somewhat and Legolas himself had been cleaned up, albeit not very thoroughly. No doubt the healers had been too busy with needy patients to worry about aesthetics. Janor left him alone after showing him the way, supposing that the king would wish privacy.

Given that he had spent so much time watching Legolas' demise following the battle, Aragorn still found himself startled at the bandages covering the Elf's slim torso decorated with the dark stains of blood. Legolas lay perfectly, unnaturally still. It was strange, seeing somebody with absolutely no sign of life, no gentle movement of the chest, no twitches of sleep, no fluttering of the eyes.

Aragorn made his way slowly over to the bed, trailing his hands along the rough fabric of the blankets. Someone would be along soon to retrieve the bedding, he imagined, maybe even take over the room. Many supplies were needed and would be squandered on a resting place. It was logical but Aragorn felt his chest aching at the notion. Someone would soon move Legolas out of the way to make way for the next victim, as if the Elf was nothing but another soldier struck down by misfortune. But Legolas was not just another victim, Aragorn thought. He was guardian to the king; most valued advisor and friend. And where were the mourners? No orderly line of people queuing to thank him for his decades of service, for helping in the retaking of Minas Tirith, for guiding Mankind towards this moment of victory, for taking down countless Orcs and other Enemies, for standing up to the Shadow in the face of almost impossible odds. It hardly seemed fair. A great warrior of his people and champion of Freedom lost forever and no one even noticed.

Tears rolled down Aragorn's cheeks and he let them fall, uncaring of what his guardian would have said about allowing such emotion to rule. He knelt at the side of the bed and took up Legolas' hand, flinching slightly at the coldness of the flesh.

"I-I don't know what to do," he confessed in a whisper. "I need you to be here to tell me what to do. What am I without your guidance?" Legolas remained unmoving in spite of Aragorn's want for it to be otherwise. "I need you, Legolas. Can you understand that?"

The words came from inside him and he knew that had someone been stood behind him he would have felt embarrassment at the thought of talking to one who could neither respond nor even hear. But it felt liberating to speak them all the same.

"What would you have me do? How can I make this right?" He sighed a heavy sigh and lowered his head in grief. "What should I do now?"

What would Legolas want him to do? Carry on, almost certainly. But how? He didn't know what to do next. Retake Gondor in the name of the United Men; that had always been their mission statement right from when Legolas had left Rivendell and taken them in search of the Rangers. But they had rarely discussed details of what would happen once Gondor was back in allied hands. But Aragorn knew the next big target. They could not stop at Gondor. Sauron would merely regroup in Mordor and march upon the city once again; eradicating the rebellious Men occupying it, taking it back into his own hands and all would be lost. All would have been for nothing.

He reached out his free hand and smoothed back dirty blonde hair. "Tell me what to do, I beg you. Some way, tell me, Legolas. Tell me!" He buried his face in the blanket covering his guardian and wept, long and hard.

**To Be Continued…**


	75. Paths Lost And Rediscovered

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 75 – Paths Lost And Rediscovered**

Aragorn didn't know for how long he had slept but he knew the moment he opened his eyes where in the city he had slept. Legolas' cold hand rested in his just as it had when he had fallen asleep, clasped tightly within his own. He raised his head from the bed where it had been pillowed upon his guardian's chest. For a moment, he was startled that he had drifted off at all considering his earlier restlessness and then slightly spooked that he had slept beside Legolas' inert body. And yet, comfort still washed over him at the closeness to his guardian no matter how macabre it may have been. For a brief moment, it felt as if all was not lost to him just yet.

He could not remain this way, he knew. Carefully, the man disengaged his hand and laid Legolas' stiff hand back down on the bed. No more tears would come as Aragorn stood again, bending to press a kiss to Legolas' brow. He had nothing left to give.

Knowing that this might very well be the last time he would ever look upon his best friend and beloved guardian, Aragorn walked backwards to the door so that he could keep the Elf in view as long as possible. Just as he was about to turn away to open the door though, drawn away by a sense of duty and weariness that could no longer be denied, his eyes caught sight of something resting up against the wall by the boarded-up window. Legolas' bag. Aragorn had forgotten all about that and didn't recall whether Jecha had brought it back with them when they had borne Legolas into Minas Tirith. Either way, there it rested.

It felt strange, taking something that belonged to his mentor, especially when Legolas had never allowed Aragorn to go rifling through his things. Even in his youth, Legolas had insisted he have some degree of privacy just as he had always allowed the boy his. But Aragorn knew that if he left the bag here then its contents may well get scavenged or discarded and never seen again. He couldn't bear that. So he picked up the bag, cast one last prayer in Legolas' direction and stepped from the room. He would speak later to Janor or Faramir about what would happen next to Legolas. But for now, Aragorn found his way back to the Seventh Level where his chambers were located. No one stopped him, although the streets were busy in the daylight. Some recognised him but none acknowledged his presence. Maybe they were unsure of how to address him, or maybe they sensed the grief radiating from him and thought it prudent to leave him alone in his own bubble of sadness. A wise decision that he was pleased for.

He made it back to his rooms without incident and shut the door firmly behind him. His chambers were vast but he settled in the far corner, sat on the floor, as though the small space was a comfort to him. Before him sat the bag that Legolas had carried ever since they had started travelling together on the Old Forest Road. It was an innocuous looking object, battered and ripped from decades of abuse, but it contained the Elf's whole life within. Every possession he owned was packed carefully away inside the thin, worn leather, every small space utilised.

For a long time, Aragorn simply stared at the object. To open it felt like an intrusion of privacy even though he knew that Legolas would have wanted him to have it.

Finally, the man undid the buckles and dropped the flap back. At the top, as always sat perhaps Legolas' most prized possessions, his twin white knives. Someone must have cleaned them up and put them back in the Elf's pack because last Aragorn had seen them they had been almost lost on the battlefield, caked in the blood of Orc and Man alike. Carefully, Aragorn lifted them out, one by one, and turned them over in his hands. He'd seen them much over the years. Legolas preferred to use them over any other weaponry, perhaps because they were undoubtedly his and not, as most of their other belongings were, scavenged from the dead. But despite this, Aragorn had never really looked at them. He remembered being fascinated as a child by them, by the swirling, illegible writing writhing over the blades and extending into the delicately carved white handles. Legolas had tended to them every night; he had even demonstrated weapon training and care to Aragorn during his lessons with them. A slight smile pulled at Aragorn's lips at the memory. 'You can look, but do not touch' his guardian had cautioned him of the sharp blades when training had first begun.

He laid the knives down and pulled from the bag Legolas' blanket. It was relatively new, scrounged from the Humans, but remained littered with holes and stained perhaps by its previous owner. Still, warmth was warmth and Legolas would never complain. Still neatly folded as was Legolas' want, Aragorn placed it on the floor to his right.

Next thing he found was Legolas' dented canteen. It was empty, although Aragorn doubted that he had had time to drink from it during the battle. Memories stirred in him of the Anduin and the very first time he had realised that Elves could actually become ill if they neglected themselves. Even then, on the brink of starvation, as Aragorn now recognised Legolas had been at that time, Legolas had been strong and unwilling to divulge just how much this world of Sauron's affected him to his young charge.

Adding this innocuous object to the small pile at his side, Aragorn went on to retrieve Legolas' sparse collection of stolen, poorly repaired and generally filthy clothes. There was not much. A couple of shirts, both the wrong size, which had always looked either far too baggy or had been ridiculously small and a spare pair of trousers, a fine, dark leather but these were broken and Aragorn remembered that Legolas had not had time to repair them recently so he had had to make do with the ones he had on. There was not another shred of clothing in there. Aragorn didn't own much either, although Legolas had always maintained that he was easier to dress as he was a smaller size. Besides, upon first coming to Rohan, he had been given some of the woollen garments crafted by the Rohirrim. Legolas had not been afforded such a luxury. Mostly because people didn't like him enough to bother with such an effort.

Each piece of clothing Aragorn folded with great care, laying them out in neat packages as though preparing them to be put back again later, although Legolas would never wear them again and they were all but useless to the king himself.

There was no more clothing inside but there was one other scrap of fabric tucked into an inside pocket, bulging ever so slightly. Aragorn carefully pulled it out. The fabric was pristine, unlike everything else that belonged to the prince, beautifully woven, stained a very light green although a darker pattern stained the reverse, for it was folded inside out. It was folded with great care around a small, hard object. Curious, Aragorn unwrapped it, tipping out a small ring into his palm. He recognised it immediately. He had seen his father wear it once. He had admired it at the time for it was a striking image that remained in his mind. Two small but splendidly cut emeralds set into the eyes of twin writhing serpents bearing a crown of flowers. The Ring of Barahir. An heirloom of his ancestry.

For a moment, Aragorn gazed in surprise at the fine ring. He had wondered what had happened to it. After being showed it by his father, Arathorn had put it in his pocket and never spoken of it again, as if he had done his duty in informing his son of its existence and never wanted to gaze upon it again. After the man had died, Aragorn had thought it lost and had never questioned Legolas about it. And he had kept it all these years. His father must have entrusted it to Legolas, to pass on to him whenever he thought the time was right. Why Legolas had never given it to him, Aragorn didn't know. Not that it mattered now. It was just a ring and to Aragorn it mattered little. He would give every jewel and treasure on the earth to have Legolas back with him.

He laid the ring aside, not able to bring himself to put it upon his finger just yet. Instead, he turned his attention to the swatch of fabric he held in his hand. It was undoubtedly Elven in origin. It was the softest fabric he had ever seen. He ran his thumb over it several times, wondering what it would feel like to wear such a garment as this came from. Embroidered upon the fabric was a coat of arms. A stand of trees and a crown of green and gold leaves. Aragorn remembered seeing such a pattern somewhere before. In the paintings in Rivendell, he had seen it emblazoned onto the tunics of the warriors. The Mirkwood army coming to the aid of their kin and allied Men during the first war with the Dark Lord. They had won then. How he wished he had pressed Erestor to explain more about the pictures. Maybe he would have understood Legolas a little better too. The symbol of Legolas' home, Aragorn thought, again focusing on the fabric. Perhaps even the royal coat of arms. Perhaps taken from one of Legolas' own long-lost tunics. It was splendid, depicting nature and wealth at the same time, living as one together. Was this what Mirkwood had been like? The natural world mingled with great, priceless possessions. What a splendid place Mirkwood must have been in its prime. He found himself suddenly envious of Legolas, of the upbringing he must have had. It was something that he himself would never have the opportunity to remember. He had no memento of any homeland for he had never had one. Nothing at all but memories of travelling, of being ensconced in the bubble of protection provided by the Rangers. Legolas had been lucky all those years out in the cold on his own to have something to look at and remember. Or maybe he hadn't looked at it that often. The fabric must have been old, from his past life certainly, but it was barely worn. Legolas had not spent countless nights touching it in the hope of inspiring nostalgia.

Looking closer, Aragorn again ran his thumb over the slightly raised symbol of Mirkwood. The royal house. He smiled thinly. The symbolism was perfect. The fabric swathing the Ring of Barahir. The House of Mirkwood protecting the Gondorian House. Legolas protecting Aragorn. Him. Tears blurred his eyes again, for just as the Ring of Barahir sat alone by his side, so he was separated from Legolas.

Wiping his wet eyes on his sleeve, Aragorn did not discard the cloth as he had with everything else. Rather, he slipped it into his pocket. Legolas had obviously cherished it, now so would he.

He picked up the Ring of Barahir and turned it over in his fingers. Why had Legolas never given it to him? He had never even mentioned it before. Had he not proven himself a good king in the past months of their campaign? Did Legolas consider him yet undeserving? These thoughts startled him. It was undeniable that they had had their disagreements and things had not been the same between them in recent years – they could not possibly remain the same, after all; Legolas had all but ensured that – but Aragorn had thought that Legolas believed in him as a king and a man. Clearly not. Legolas had held back. It hurt; that truth of his guardian's distrust.

Slowly, Aragorn slipped the ancient ring of his House onto his index finger. It fit perfectly, whether by accident or design.

He felt nothing. No thrill of his past, no call to his future. It was just a cold band of fine metal. Nothing like the white hot power that sat carefully concealed within his jacket pocket. The Ring of Barahir was a pretty heirloom and nothing more. It was somewhat anticlimactic. Maybe that was why Legolas had held out on him all this time. Maybe he knew that it was just a ring and meant nothing. Perhaps Arathorn had given it to him as an after-thought and he himself had forgotten all about it, buried it in his bag and never given it any further consideration. For that Aragorn could not blame him and so it was that which he chose to believe for he thought it better than the alternative.

Disappointed, Aragorn turned back to the bag. One thing remained in there, right at the bottom, wrapped in a far more familiar cloth. He thought he knew what this was. Shifting up onto his knees so that he could peer into the bag, Aragorn pulled the sides out a little, revealing the round shape of the object.

Yes, there is was, the familiar tingle of the Shadow at the edges of his senses.

Almost against his will, Aragorn's hand delved into the bag and fingers touched lightly upon the fabric. Immediately came the flash that he expected. Red fire and deep blackness assailed his vision as if he had been thrown into a raging fire that threatened not only to consume his body but violate his soul as well. He snatched his hand back, gripping his fingers to rid them of the pain of being burnt.

Legolas had eluded to keeping the Palantir even after the trouble it caused to him and Ciaran once before. After that unfortunate incident, when Ciaran had been tempted to the Shadow and Aragorn himself had felt the touch of Evil upon him, Legolas had never mentioned it to anyone again and Aragorn had not seen the Seeing Stone once since. But of course Legolas had kept it. When they had first looked upon it in Edoras, Legolas had mentioned to Eomer that it would be useful to their cause. He had not specified how. But he must have held that belief for it must have taken courage to bear around such Darkness. This, Aragorn knew well and his thoughts went immediately to the Ring in his pocket. And then he suddenly shoved the bag away and scuttled backwards. Sauron was close by whenever the Palantir was near and that he might be able to detect the Ring of Power terrified Aragorn to the core.

Breathing heavily in fear at how close he felt to Sauron, Aragorn stared uselessly at the bag, thinking upon what rested within. It was too much. Legolas had carried this for years. Determined, he must have been, to keep it so close. Unfortunately, it was just one more thing that Legolas had failed to explain to him.

Aragorn buried his face in his hands. What was he supposed to do now? Never before had he felt so lost. Not even when Legolas had first revealed to him his true lineage. There were those who could advise him, members of his own race who were significantly better commanders and strategists than he could claim to be, but he found that he just didn't have the heart to seek them out. He wanted to sit in this room forever and forget all about his destiny and the plans that were laid out for him. What did they matter now?

Anger suddenly burned inside of him again. How could Legolas make him feel this way? How was such a feeling fair? It was the Elf's fault. He had sworn fealty and yet not delivered. He had gone away; not by choice to be sure but he was gone nonetheless.

Crying out loud, Aragorn dropped his arms down onto his lap, tears spilling down his cheeks again. His gaze was drawn to the bag holding the Seeing Stone but he ignored its teasing pull and turned his head away. Fire flashed through his mind again, although this time it was the flames of his own rage and not the wrath of the Dark Lord that burned him.

He wanted to be doing something. A stark contrast to his feeling of wanting to drown in his own sorrows just a moment ago. Getting up, he stalked the length of the room and back, searching for inspiration. Nothing came to him. They had taken Minas Tirith, the battle was won. The clean-up continued but he was not in the mood for that. He wanted to hurt something; wanted to kill. He wanted the Shadow to suffer for what it had done. It was not enough that he had struck down so many of the Enemy in the battle. He needed more. He wanted…revenge.

The realisation almost threw him off balance so that he reached for the wall to steady himself. So consumed by his own grief and sense of loss had Aragorn been that he had not given any thought to the repercussions of Legolas' death. Of course the Elf would want his death avenged. He was a soldier, dead set against beating back the creeping Shadow. And what had been Legolas' last wish? For his ward to continue. To beat the Dark Lord and make the world right again.

Filled suddenly with renewed purpose, Aragorn smiled a grim smile and bent down to pick up his own previously discarded weapons. Shrugging on his belt and checking that Anduril rested firmly at his side, he prepared himself. He did not immediately rush out the door though because another thought came to him and he returned to Legolas' pitiful pile of belongings and retrieved the two white knives. They seemed heavier than they had before but he turned them both over in his hands for a moment, getting used to the feel. Much like Anduril had when he had first been gifted the sword by the Elves of Imladris, these knives felt filled with potent Elven power and he trembled in anticipation at watching them spill blood by his own actions.

Now fully armed and prepared, Aragorn left the room, almost colliding with a guard who was stood in the corridor outside. He did not question his presence, nor pause when the young man called after him in surprise; he simply strode down the hallway, searching for the door that would lead him outside. The vastness of Minas Tirith suddenly felt too confining.

**OIOI**

"To victory."

"Victory," went up the subdued replying chorus.

Sat outside of the city walls, overlooking the Pelennor Fields, the various commanders raised their cups in tribute. Formal celebrations could happen later, when things were more certain and people had had a chance to recover from the battle and from their losses. But now, late in the night when the soldiers and healers had been sent to rest and things were quiet, Faramir, Eomer, Janor and Jecha gathered together to toast winning the battle and to remember what had been lost.

There had been so little time to reflect in the days since the battle. So much had to be done. There were still the injured to care for, the securing of the city to undertake, inventory of what the Shadow's forces had left behind and bodies to be recovered. But this night, when the only other people awake were the skeleton crew of guards patrolling the city, seemed like a good night to reflect at long last.

Each took a long sip of their water. It didn't seem right to drink the remaining dregs of the Ranger's alcohol when there was use for the liquid in the healing halls. So they toasted with water.

"It doesn't seem real," Faramir commented, sitting back against the wall as he lowered his tin cup to rest on his knee. "For years my people have fought for this."

"They didn't fight. They stood by hoping that Minas Tirith might miraculously be cleansed and they could regain it for themselves," snapped Jecha without thought, for what he spoke was the truth.

The Steward bristled for a moment but then settled again. Tonight was not a night for fighting amongst themselves. "Still, it is strange."

"Bet you're glad we came now," remarked Eomer with a grin.

"Immensely."

"But what now?" Janor asked quietly.

Silence for a long moment and then Jecha spoke again, softer than before. Respectful. "That will be up to the King."

"The King? Oh, you mean the man who is right hiding away in his rooms and refusing to come out, shirking all responsibility?" muttered Faramir but he shrank back when he immediately felt the tension around the other commanders build up. Insulting Aragorn was not a good move amongst them. "My apologies. But it is true all the same."

"Give him a break. He has lost much," Janor told the Steward, his mind immediately flying to Legolas.

"Who hasn't lost much? I lost my father; do you see my dwelling on the past? We must take pains to secure this city in case of another attack."

"It is different for him. Legolas was not just his guardian; he was his guide also. Without him, Aragorn feels lost. He needs time to figure out what his next move will be."

"But can we really wait? Right now, Sauron is probably plotting our demise. There are things in Minas Tirith that need doing and we need a leader to ensure that they are done. Sauron will see our weaknesses if we allow him to."

Eomer grinned broadly over at him. "Scared?"

"Immensely," smiled the Steward back, his tension easing.

"Either way, we'll know soon enough." Janor was confident of that at least. Aragorn would not make them wait long.

The conversation turned away from politics then, for it was too much of an uncertain topic for them; better not to worry over it. There would be time for worrying later. They talked instead of people they loved, of their pasts, of what they planned to do when the war was done with. Conversation flowed freely even though it was only water that filled their cups. These were powerful men in the fate of Middle Earth but at that moment they were just four soldiers discussing mindless things in the hope that it might simulate normalcy even for only a moment. That was what they yearned for more than anything. A return to the simple lives their fathers had known. After the winning of Minas Tirith, that wish seemed closer than ever to coming true.

When the talk turned to the details of Jecha's childhood amongst the tribes of Easterlings constantly at war with each other as well as with the rest of the world, Eomer found his mind drifting. For some reason, he rather liked the Easterling as an enigma and would have preferred him to remain that way. He couldn't quite make himself believe that Jecha was as he and his fellow Rohirrim and Ranger and Gondorian were. He had turned traitor once – there was nothing to say he wouldn't again. It seemed that he didn't trust his fellow commanders as much as he liked to think.

So Eomer chose the rather impractical tactic of burying his head in the sand and ignoring Jecha's tale lest it churn up any more ideas of treachery in his mind. Rather, he let his eyes wander around the battlefield. Not much remained. The fires had long since died out. Men had stopped working at sundown. Only the bodies of the Enemy remained now. Some Men remained unaccounted for but it seemed pointless to scour the field for them as chances were they were lost forever. So the clean-up now consisted of getting rid of the foul carcasses of the Enemy.

Mercifully, the wind was blowing away from them this night or else Eomer feared the stench of rotting flesh would have been unbearable. At times, as the Uruk and Orc corpses burned upon their heaps, the smell drifted over the city and made anyone who caught scent of it gag in repulsion. But such was necessary, for it would have been a hundred times worse had the corpses been allowed to simply rot into the earth. Men now worked with their noses shrouded in cloth to help with the smell and each day they came back looking grimmer than ever.

Of course, Eomer had done his share of the work too. He divided his time between sitting with his ailing sister, at Council and helping with the manual labour on the battlefield. At times he managed to sleep too, although that seemed a rare occurrence of late. Still, the commanders all knew that they must set a good example for their people, especially with Aragorn absent.

It was as Eomer was looking over the field, contemplating how many more days their people must toil to finish the gruesome job, that he caught sight of a shadow slipping from Minas Tirith's main gate. His first instinct was to go for his sword but he quelled that action as he didn't think it an enemy. In fact, even from a distance too great to know for certain, he could guess at who the deserter might be. He had been expecting it to a certain degree.

"Excuse me," he told the others as he climbed to his feet.

He jogged across the field until he reached the path leading away from the city and then followed it at a much slower pace. Ahead of him walked Aragorn, steady and unyielding. In his hands flashed white and silver. Weapons drawn, determined. He looked a picture of kingly strength even from behind and at a distance. Eomer found himself marginally impressed – although still not surprised.

The man was getting further away from him so Eomer pushed himself into a jog again and called out, "Aragorn!"

The word echoed all around and immediately Aragorn spun towards him, weapons up, stopping to wonder at being followed.

Catching up, Eomer asked, "Where are you going?"

Tears were still wet upon Aragorn's face. He had been crying recently. Anduril was secured around his waist, ready and waiting to see battle again. Despite his dishevelled appearance though, there was steely determination in grey eyes and Eomer knew that he had his mind set on action and that through his grief and anger, he would be difficult to deter.

Slowly, Eomer moved around him, Aragorn turning in a slow circle to follow him, watching as the Rohan man positioned himself to block his path.

Again, Eomer asked, "Where are you going?"

Aragorn took a step forward, bringing him right up close to the older man, who still refused to move. He sidestepped then but Eomer followed him, refusing passage. Anger flashed in his eyes again and his right hand which held a glinting white knife that had once belonged to Legolas, twitched dangerously in warning.

"Stand aside, Eomer," growled the younger man fiercely.

Holding up his hand to prevent the king from moving and hoping that it might prevent any irrational action on his part, Eomer reasoned calmly, "I cannot allow you to continue upon this course. You know that."

"I am king; I do not need permission from you or any other."

"Then listen to wise counsel, King. Please. To go to Mordor now, unprepared and angry, is madness."

"Out of my way, Rohirrim," warned Aragorn darkly, this time holding Legolas' knife up higher still, although Eomer sensed that he would not use it just yet, not against one he considered an ally and a friend.

"Aragorn, please, listen to reason."

Shoving hard at Eomer's chest to get him out of the way, Aragorn tried to get past again but Eomer was equally determined and would not be swayed, not even by violence.

"Get out of my way!" roared Aragorn, fresh tears slipping down his rugged cheeks. "Now!"

"I have already told you that I cannot. You are my King and I am sworn to protect you and thus I cannot leave you alone now. This is suicide."

"I don't care!"

Remaining calm in the face of the storm of fury and grief coming at him, Eomer raised his hands again, not knowing whilst Aragorn was so out of sorts whether he would actually use those fearsome weapons held in his hands.

"I know you don't mean that. Legolas would not have you say such things."

The mention of Aragorn's ward did not go down well and Aragorn's hands tightened again on the twin knives in anger. Eomer prepared to jump out of the way of an attack.

"Don't you say that! You know nothing about him! You hated him until the day he died and don't you deny it!"

"I did not hate him."

"Shut up!"

"I cannot."

Suddenly, Aragorn lunged at him, one knife raised to Eomer's throat. The man tensed, ready for the killing blow and knowing fully well that retreat had suddenly become impossible. His life now rested on Aragorn's state of mind. A terrifying thought indeed.

"Aragorn, listen to me please. This is not the way."

"What do you know?" snarled the man angrily.

"More than you think. I have lost too. I know how it feels – that deep grief. It feels like you're drowning in it and you cannot drag yourself to the surface. But walking head-long into a fight you know you cannot win is not the way. It will not bring Legolas back. Nor will revenge."

"I don't care. He took something precious to me and now he must pay!"

"And he will. He will pay. But not yet."

"I cannot wait!" Aragorn yelled, suddenly shoving Eomer hard away from him and starting to walk away again. "I cannot!"

Chasing after him, Eomer, still uncertain as to how far exactly Aragorn would go to get away, dashed in front of the young king, holding out his hands to halt his progress once again. Aragorn obediently ground to a halt, although his hands were gripping the handles of the twin knives so tight that they shook.

"Please, Aragorn," implored the Rohan man in one last ditch attempt to talk some sense into his stricken king, "just think about this for a moment. I know it is hard to see clearly. I feel the need for vengeance just as intently as you do." Aragorn looked ready to shove past him again so Eomer hurried onwards. "I know that you are grieving. I know the depths of your pain. Legolas' passing is…unbearable. But this is not the way. Charge in without preparation and you will be slaughtered before ever you reach the Dark Lord's inner sanctum. Be patient and you may stand a chance against him. With us at your side. Please, think!"

For a long moment, the tension held. The air was thick with it, as if the very earth bristled over the pain emanating from the King of Men and thirsted for vengeance just as much as he. A strange thought, Eomer contemplated as he gazed steadily into Aragorn's grey eyes, trying to apply the same technique with the younger man that he had seen Legolas use on occasion. It was hard to tell whether it was working or whether Aragorn was just waiting for the right moment to cut him down and proceed upon his suicidal mission.

Then, suddenly, something snapped. In an instant, the atmosphere changed from tension to one of absolute dejection. Aragorn himself loosened up completely, shoulders slumping forward, hands going limp so that the two knives dropped to the ground with twin thumps. Eomer himself relaxed, realising that he had been readying himself for a fight; willing to do whatever he had to in order to protect the king.

"I am sorry," Eomer told the younger man softly, his words sounding insufferably loud in the quiet and indeed Aragorn actually flinched upon hearing them.

Aragorn stood there, on the roughly hewn path leading away from Minas Tirith. No more tears fell but they pooled in his eyes, threatening to spill.

The silence, Eomer decided after a full minute of it, was worse than the threat of being run through with deadly sharp knives. He didn't know what to say next. What more could he say but 'sorry'? Nothing could comfort in the wake of the death of a loved one. And yet, even in his silence, Aragorn seemed to almost be begging for some words of comfort, looking for wisdom from the older man of Rohan.

When such wisdom did not seem forthcoming, he raised his eyes to Eomer and asked in a small whisper, "What am I to do now?"

Yes, that was the problem. Until now, he had always had a destination. Legolas had always known what to do, where to go to get what was needed for the next phase. But now, he was in Gondor, King at last. Victory had been assured and yet the biggest hurdle yet stood before him and he had no idea how to go about getting past it. He needed guidance. He was useless without it, he realised. He was languishing here in Minas Tirith. He needed to be doing something; hence his sudden intense need to seek out the abomination that had taken away from him his direction and purpose. But that was beyond his reach.

Eomer carefully took a step closer to him, as though worried that he might just break into pieces should he be startled in any way, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Come back to the city. Rest tonight."

"And then?"

"And then tomorrow…we prepare."

Anger suddenly burned in Aragorn's chest again at the mention of this. He didn't want to plan. He wanted to seek out Sauron and kill him. Never had he felt an urge so strong; it was almost overpowering. But he knew that it was not sensible. What Eomer had said was correct. To plunge into Mordor without planning would be the death of him and then Sauron would stand forever unopposed and it would have all been for nothing. That would not do. So he forced the anger down, closing his eyes in concentration as he got a hold of himself once more.

In the back of his mind, he felt the subtle pull of the Ring grow ever so slightly bolder, as though taunting him. His fingers twitched at his side, longing to touch the band of gold, to feel its power just once more. But he did not succumb to the need. He knew that it corrupted, distorted and ever sought to destroy him, for it belonged to Sauron and that was his will. He would not surrender to him, would not let everything he and Legolas had worked for be in vain. He would stand bold and resist the call for as long as he needed to. He would not stray from his path. He would march into Mordor with the full might of the Free Peoples behind him and he would take his revenge – not just for Legolas but for his father and for everything that had been tainted by the Shadow. The thought made his spirits soar and his hands finally stilled at his sides. A small smile of peace came to his lips and he knew he must have looked absurd or mad to Eomer but he didn't care.

Finally, he opened his eyes and found that indeed Eomer was looking at him strangely. Perhaps he thought that the grief had made him snap completely but in actuality it was quite the opposite. He was more in control of himself now than ever before because he had purpose again. It was clear in his mind what he had to do. Tomorrow, he would reveal his will to his people and they would follow him and they would succeed and then it would all be done.

"Yes," he finally spoke, his voice still raw with emotion but steadier now than it had been. "We shall return to the city. The commanders will convene in the morning."

"Very well," Eomer agreed, although now he felt that perhaps he had spoken without thought and prompted into action something that he would regret later. "Come, I will walk you back."

To ensure that he wasn't feigning and once left alone return to his previous path, Aragorn thought with a wry smile to himself. He nodded once and bent to retrieve the twin blades. Suddenly, they felt lighter in his hands and he realised that in actual fact he had been dreading where he was going and his intentions once he reached the lands of Sauron.

Eomer walked him all the way back to his room and ensured that he was settled before leaving. Aragorn was sure that on the way out he had a quiet word with the guard in his doorway; ensuring that his king would partake of no more late-night wanderings. Aragorn had no intention of going anywhere though.

Even so, he found that sleep eluded him. Perhaps he had slept too long already. But he was restless. He gave up trying to drift off after an hour and instead wandered around the room for a while. It was impossible in the blackness to see anything out the window, although he found himself staring out of the glass for a while, looking out over Pelennor where he knew the bodies of the Orc armies still decayed. He didn't care. Let them rot. Why should he bother about such heinous creatures? His mind began to take a dark turn then and he wondered whether they thought the same of Men. Perhaps. Despite his idle wonderings though, Aragorn found that he didn't care. He hated those creatures of Shadow more than ever.

Having indulged in enough dark thoughts for one night, Aragorn turned his back on Pelennor and sat down on the floor under the window.

First, he cleaned out his own pack, which he thought had been woefully neglected of late at which Legolas would have been utterly horrified. Then he re-packed Legolas' own bag, deciding to leave it where it was. He wasn't going to swap his things into Legolas' bag. It didn't seem right somehow. Besides, he had taken enough of Legolas' belongings. He didn't need more. Once that was done, he began cleaning and sharpening Anduril, something which should have been done straight after the battle but he had never gotten around to it. Then, he moved onto Legolas' knives, using the same technique that Legolas always had, thinking that was how it should be.

By the time dawn came, Aragorn had cleaned himself up and prepared himself for what must come next. His mind felt clearer now than it had done in days. Taking the time to reassert himself had helped and he was grateful that the people around him had afforded him the privilege that few enjoyed in times of war.

A knock at the door startled him from his musings as he looked out of the window over Pelennor into the seemingly ever-present morning mists.

"Enter," he called and turned just in time to see Eomer coming through the door.

"Good morning, my Lord," Eomer smiled, although he did not bother with bowing, for which Aragorn was grateful. It would take time to get used to such formalities on a regular basis.

"Morning."

"Did you sleep?"

"No," Aragorn answered truthfully. "But I thought a lot, Eomer and my mind is clearer now."

"I am glad to hear it. I was concerned for you last night."

Aragorn did not want to think upon the previous night. It didn't quite feel real. He could feel the echo of that blackness in his heart and feared that concentrating on it would make it manifest once more. Picking up his jacket, he slid his arms into the sleeves and distracted himself by asking Eomer, "There were Men come here?"

"My Lord?"

"Halbarad. A Ranger, I think he called himself."

"Yes. A Ranger of the North."

"What do you know of him?"

"Only what he has told me. He travelled the lands, mainly in the east, freeing the oppressed and aiding the Free where he could. He said that he had heard rumour of stirrings in Gondor."

"He did not report to the Steward?"

"He said not and Faramir has never heard of him or his people. It seems they are a law unto themselves; I suppose much as Kinnale's Rangers were. They never answered to Denethor either. When Men were divided, many such factions broke off. It's entirely possible that Halbarad never came into contact with any of them."

"Kinnale would have mentioned other Rangers had he known of them," Aragorn agreed with certainty. Additional soldiers was not something the Ranger would have ever hidden from them had he been aware.

"You have spent some time with them?"

"I spoke with them when they arrived. So too did Faramir, Jecha and Janor. They said that curiosity brought them to Gondor and they were surprised when they heard the King had been restored to the throne."

"And their loyalties?"

Eomer paused here for he knew what Aragorn was looking for: some assurance that these men, these Rangers no one had ever met, were reliable, honourable men who would not betray. "I believe them to be true, my Lord. Halbarad speaks as one against Mordor and who wishes to aid our cause. Neither he nor his people have given me cause to doubt them."

For a moment, Aragorn considered this. It was a risk, bringing new, untested people into the fold but he sorely needed help right then. His numbers were depleted. If the Rangers of the North, led by Halbarad, could help them then Aragorn knew he couldn't afford to turn them away.

"My Lord," Eomer prompted after a moment of thoughtful silence, "as you requested, the Commanders are gathered in the throne room and the Council of Osgiliath has also been brought together again, at the request of Lord Faramir."

Aragorn frowned. The Council. The people who opposed the re-taking of Minas Tirith in the first place. What could they want? No doubt to celebrate his great victory, for which they would surely want to take some credit. Or to stand in his way again. Well, that would not happen. The next step would go ahead whether it was agreed at court today or not. If he had to march into Mordor by himself; just him and the banner of Gondor and the twin white knives, then so be it.

"Thank you."

As the King passed him by, Eomer took his arm and brought him to a halt. "So you know, no matter what is decided in there, we are with you. The Rohirrim will ride with Aragorn of Gondor under the united banner. And you know that Janor and Jecha will also follow you." He nodded confidently, his decision made and thus irreversible. "Just so you know."

Aragorn's features softened slightly at this. He did have allies after all. Perhaps he wasn't quite as alone as he originally thought.

"Thank you, Eomer," the king smiled, embracing the startled Commander briefly. "You cannot know how much I appreciate it."

Eomer clapped him on the back and pulled away with a feigned scowl. "I can't believe you ever doubted it."

A genuine smile lit up Aragorn's face and he led the way through the doors and towards the throne room where his comrades were gathered.

**To Be Continued…**


	76. Callings

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews. Hope you enjoy Chapter 76.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 76 – Callings**

Cold calm had stolen over Aragorn as he went to stand before his assembled commanders. They all stood in a loose circle in the centre of the massive throne room, as there was nowhere but the two thrones to sit and none would approach those sacred places, not even Faramir who had a rightful claim to the smaller of them. So Aragorn stood also. He didn't want to be seen as weaker than them nor did he want to seem superior given the decision he had come here to convey, no matter what the truth might have been. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, hoping his posture conveyed assurance and strength, aware that everyone in the respectfully silent room was waiting on him.

Eomer, of course, knew what they had been summoned to discuss and Aragorn suspected that he had confided in Janor and Jecha at least, if not Faramir as well. But there was no immediate debate or protestation as there had been with the Council in Osgiliath – although they too were present and correct, looking rather sheepish considering how loudly they had objected to the recapturing of Minas Tirith in the first place and how it had ended in victory.

Aragorn felt mildly comforted that he had a few allies amongst him now.

Surely, the reluctant Council of Osgiliath would be his greatest challenge here today. And perhaps Faramir also. The man would be reluctant indeed to give up on his city so soon after winning it back. But nevertheless, Aragorn was confident that Eomer, Jecha and Janor and all their followers would stand behind him no matter what. Despite everything, they had liked Legolas and would understand his need to do something in the name of his guardian.

One entity that Aragorn was entirely unsure about was the newcomer Halbarad. The man stood tall and quiet on the far side of the room, making his presence known without being overly intrusive amongst those who had been allies longer. He remained an enigma and Aragorn did not know on which side the man would come down.

Still, Halbarad had brought only thirty Rangers with him; little opposition and a small loss to any potential attack.

"We have won Minas Tirith," Aragorn finally broke the silence, his voice echoing loudly as it bounced off of exquisite marble. "But we have not won the war."

Silence. Given what a great victory they had just succeeded in, it came as somewhat of a shock to be told that they had not won after all. And yet everyone remained quiet out of respect for their king.

"The Dark Lord still lives in Mordor."

Faramir stepped forward, as Aragorn had known he would at this moment. "This we know. But we have still facilitated a great victory for the Free Peoples of Middle Earth. And we know where you are going with this, my Lord."

"We are not free yet," Aragorn said, ignoring the snapped remark. "We remained chained to the Dark Lord's rule."

The Gondorian man sighed heavily to make his displeasure known to all and paced around his colleagues for a moment, seemingly deep in thought although Aragorn guessed that he had already rehearsed his argument in his head. Apparently, Eomer had indeed confided in his fellow prior to this gathering. Now Aragorn wished that he had kept his confidence.

"Our resources are massively depleted, our forces not yet recovered. And Mordor is no short distance away from Minas Tirith."

"I know all this."

"Then be you must understand the need to be reasonable. Your desire for revenge cannot be allowed to overrule common sense."

It was a cruel barb but it struck him hard, especially when said before people he looked up to and respected. Aragorn felt his cheeks flush hot in embarrassment. His mind was thrown back to Meduseld when the men had been arguing amongst themselves over their next course of action and he had felt so terribly out of his depth and had in the end been reduced to simply sitting quiet and waiting for the storm to pass. Then it had been Legolas who had intervened, much to the consternation of the Rohirrim, and spoken of their next step. Now, he was alone and for a brief moment Aragorn thought that he would drown in the responsibility. But that was not an option. It was all up to him now.

Clearing his throat, the young king boldly looked up to Faramir and retorted, "I am not allowing my need to avenge Legolas' death to cloud my judgement in this matter, Steward. I simply maintain that things cannot simply remain as they are. So long as Sauron yet lives then we will all be slaves. He will not leave Minas Tirith unchallenged for long. And as you have said already, Faramir, we are weakened."

"Yes, and how will marching on Mordor be any better for our people? Such a journey would take days and we have not the resources to sustain an army on such a journey."

Aragorn was already shaking his head. "I have no intention of leading our army into the Black Lands."

The first rumbles of confusion went up amongst the gathered people; even those Aragorn knew to be loyal to him. He allowed them to speculate amongst themselves for a moment, knowing that they needed to do so.

It was Eomer who finally spoke up, perhaps thinking it would not sound so challenging coming from him. "Then…how? How will we fight the Dark Lord if we do not go to Mordor, Sire?"

A small smile played over Aragorn's lips at this. "We shall summon him here."

Another long stunned silence that this time Aragorn found rather amusing.

"Summon-?" started Faramir incredulously. "What could you possibly-? How?"

Walking to the centre of the circle, Aragorn looked to each commander in turn, hoping to convey assurance. "Legolas left me something. He said that it would benefit our cause greatly one day. I now believe him to be correct."

"What?" Eomer asked, interested. "What did he leave?"

"You should know. It resided hidden in Meduseld for long enough."

Realisation dawned a moment later and green eyes widened as Eomer gleaned what Aragorn was telling him. The others remained clueless. Only Aragorn, Legolas, Eomer and the now deceased Kinnale had been in the small room with the Palantir in Meduseld. No one else knew a whole lot about it, even though some had seen the strange object shortly after Kinnale's untimely death. Perhaps they had thought that after that misfortune, the commanders would have gotten rid of the cursed ball of stone that linked them to the evil of the Dark Lord.

"Please tell me you are not serious," the Rohan man demanded in a low voice, suddenly looking challenging and dangerous once more.

"Quite serious."

Eomer closed his eyes briefly to gain control of his rising anger and then pinned Aragorn with his most impressive stare. "Have you completely lost your mind?" So much for allies. "You intend to use that…_thing_."

"Yes."

"You-" He stopped, closed his eyes again as if to collect his thoughts and then continued, "Aragorn. Your Majesty. Do you remember what I told you when I first showed you that thing? I told you that it had driven anyone who touched it to the very brink of madness. Ciaran proved that when he looked into it to seek his father. And you want to summon the Darkness with it?"

Aragorn considered this for a moment and then answered bluntly, "Yes."

It appeared to be a struggle for the Rohan commander to remain cool in the face of his anger and he fought his annoyance for a good while before he spoke again. "Aragorn, I would have to strongly advise against that. It is a dangerous thing."

"I understand that. But it is a risk we have to take."

"No, it is not."

"Faramir just said that we cannot march on Mordor."

"Faramir is wrong!"

"No, he is not wrong. To face Sauron in his own lands would be folly. He would kill us before we even had a chance. But to fight on our terms…we might just win."

"No, Aragorn, we will not. We will be slaughtered."

"Trust that I know what I'm doing."

The clearing of a throat interrupted their discussion and both men looked to Faramir, who had been stood watching them in confusion. "I don't know what all this is about specifically but I get the gist and, whether dangerous or not, I think you're forgetting the one major caveat here, which is that Sauron, summoned or no, has never left Mordor and will not."

Aragorn's eyes went distant at this but he said softly, "He will come."

"How can you be so sure?"

The king's hand drifted to the hilt of Anduril, caressing the worn leather. So much history resided within this blade re-forged and history – destiny – could not be ignored. "He will come." The question stood and everyone waited for a more certain answer from their king. "He will come for me."

Janor stepped forward and, sounding more concerned than anyone had been about the king so far, said, "And that is a good idea? Offering yourself up for bait?"

"He has a point, Aragorn," put in Jecha at this point, ever concerned about the king's safety. "If Sauron comes to you, it will be to kill you. He will show no mercy."

"I am not looking for mercy. He will try to kill me and he will fail."

"How can you be so sure?" Faramir demanded to know.

"Because…this was destined to be."

Once more, silence fell over the room. It was thoughtful. No one was quite sure what to make of all this. The possibility that Aragorn had been driven to the brink of sanity by the pressures of his role as king and the death of someone so close to him was not dismissed readily even by those closest to him.

"Aragorn-" began Eomer softly, thinking that perhaps it was time to escort the young king back to his rooms and consult a healer and that all of this had been done too quickly.

"No, Eomer. This is right. This is how it must happen. We will bring the Dark Lord to us, fight him on our terms, not his and we will win."

"We still wouldn't stand a chance!" exclaimed one of the elderly Council members that Aragorn recognised from Osgiliath. He wondered that the man had been able to hold his tongue for this long. "You would lead us to certain death?"

Aragorn thought for a moment, grey eyes distant, giving the comment serious consideration. It had not escaped him that many of the army would not return if they went into battle. But he had to think of the future, of what Middle Earth could be again. If he did nothing, if they lived trapped in Minas Tirith, forever hounded by the Shadow until the race of Men finally faltered and failed, then everything else would have been in vain, everything sacrificed would have been for naught.

"Yes. For Middle Earth. For freedom."

The hush that descended next was a curious mix of pride and utter dismay. All eyes rested upon Aragorn but he did not flinch from them as he had once done. These were his people. He owed them strength. So he endured their gazes, waiting for a response, ready no matter what they came up with.

Much to everyone's surprise, it was the stranger who came forth first. He stepped out of the tighter circle that had formed around the king during the short debate and came to stand directly in front of him. Laying his hand on his chest over the position where his heart rested, Halbarad bowed his head solemnly.

"We, the Rangers of the North, shall follow you, my King," he declared formally.

For a moment, Aragorn found himself too stunned to reply. Relief surged in his chest, almost making his eyes water, but he shoved it aside and straightened himself out.

Returning the bow briefly, he said, "Thank you."

Jecha was next to declare his allegiance. That was far more expected. The Easterling had always shown great loyalty to the Crown. It would not falter now, in the face of danger and death. "I will follow you, my King."

This time, Aragorn just nodded his thanks.

The other commanders followed swiftly then. Eomer, Janor. Faramir was the last, somewhat more reluctant but with a steely determination in his grey eyes that Aragorn had never seen before. He voiced no concern about their future plans and ignored muffled murmurs of indignation from his gathered Council as he pledged fealty to the king.

"Thank you," Aragorn said to them all and he let the sentiment hang in the air for a long moment.

Then, the planning came. It would be no easy feat to take on Sauron and the armies of Mordor but after the victory at Minas Tirith, their spirits were high again and their confidence in their army great.

By the end of the meeting, the general plans had been laid out. It was late by the time the commanders and their king retired to bed. Come morning, the whole city would know of the plans against Mordor and there would be much reassuring to do.

First, before the attack, the commanders had insisted on something that Aragorn had been dreading ever since the day Legolas had confided in him his true birth-right: A coronation. To see the king crowned would be a great boost for morale for the people of united Gondor, the gathered advisors had maintained over Aragorn's continued reluctance about the whole thing. He was asking those people of Gondor to go into battle for him yet again. Already they trusted him but a coronation would serve to consolidate their loyalty and to participate in a small ceremony before the people of Minas Tirith and wear the crown of the king was deemed a small price to pay for such fierce loyalty. Despite all his misgivings, Aragorn nevertheless stood quietly as they had hashed out the details of his coronation. It was decided: the loyal Men of Minas Tirith would be gather on the top level of the great retaken city and watch as Faramir, the current ruling Steward, crowned Aragorn the rightful King of Gondor at last.

That night, Aragorn went to bed filled with both new hope and great anxiety. He didn't sleep well; just lay on his bed of furs before his luxurious fire and thought about what was waiting for him the next day. How things had changed. So fast. One minute, he was walking the Old Forest Road with a reluctant guardian and the next he was here, alone, about to be crowned king. He wondered at what Legolas would have thought of all this. Alone in the dark, he smiled at this. Of course his mentor would have told him to grin and bear what was coming whilst at the same time retreating to the shadows to avoid interacting with any of the Men sealing Aragorn's fate. He was still uncertain as to whether he considered this a gift or a curse.

**OIOI**

The coronation happened within the week and was no big affair. It couldn't possibly be. People were still grieving for what had been lost and reeling from the aftermath of the ferocious Battle of Pelennor Fields. And yet, by midday, hundreds had gathered, awaiting the moment their leader would be publically named. Every man, woman and child capable of doing so came to the highest level of Minas Tirith, gathered outside of the elaborate throne room where the commanders had spread the word that morning that the ceremony would take place. The whole place was fairly buzzing with excitement. Many had interacted with their king at some point for he had been instrumental in preparing for the attacks and everyone knew the importance of this ceremony to name Aragorn as their official king. It meant a lot to them all. Forever would they be loyal to the commanders and Steward who had led them as far as Osgiliath but this signified a whole new beginning for the scattered race of Men reunited and that was something to rejoice in.

On the steps leading to the throne room, stood Eomer, Faramir and Jecha. All were dressed well, although by no means grandly. They wore no sign on their persons of their respective ranks. Only Jecha looked mildly impressive in his scarlet robes and finely polished belts and exotic-styled weaponry but that was nothing out of the ordinary; his splendour was a common sight. They all waited patiently for Aragorn to join them, admiring the strength of their people as they turned out in the midday gloom to witness an event that would change them as a people for good and quite possibly change the fortunes of Middle Earth.

Inside the throne room, stood the man about to be honoured. Aragorn paced nervously, as he had been doing for most of the night and well into the morning, the heels of his well-worn shoes clicking loudly on the splendid marble floor. He could hear outside the chatter of his people. They were all waiting for his appearance, some excited, others mournful. Butterflies flapped in his stomach, making him grateful that he had declined the offer of a porridge breakfast.

With great courage he had strode into battle, leading his people against the near impossible forces of the Shadow and bringing them out victorious against impossible odds; but facing Sauron's blood-thirsty hoards was infinitely better than what now awaited him. Orcs went down at the stroke of a blade but this was a far more sedate battle that nonetheless terrified him. He knew expectations were high for him and he recognised too that things might well turn sour when people realised what he had in store for them.

Smoothing out his jacket and repositioning Anduril, which rested reassuringly in its scabbard against his leg, Aragorn walked to the door and back. It wouldn't be long before Faramir would announce him and he would have to go out and be looked upon by all those hundreds of people. He wasn't entirely sure what the order of business would be. He knew there was a crown – a magnificent thing crafted from gold and rubies that would be placed upon his head as a symbol of his royal status. When he had been shown the item he had almost laughed at its ridiculousness. Of all the things the Orcs could have taken and they had left this priceless monstrosity behind. Why, he had asked Faramir in all seriousness as he'd tried on the sacred symbol of power, had the Uruk-hai not thought to loot the vaults beneath the city? Faramir had smiled at him and reminded him that gold meant little to the servants of Mordor.

Still, he had reminded himself that despite all the pomp that was about to surround him, he was being bestowed a great honour and must do all in his power to prove himself worthy of it. And that was the thought more than any other that terrified him.

Not for the first time that morning, Aragorn's thoughts drifted to his mentor. Legolas lay resting now beneath the city in the beautiful crypts designed for the kings of old. Although Aragorn thought that the Elf would hate such an entombment he could not bear to place his guardian upon a funeral pyre and stand and watch one he loved like a father burn. It didn't seem right to Aragorn that Legolas was not here to see this when he had worked so very hard to see it come to pass. Of all people, the Elf deserved to be there.

These despairing thoughts were dangerous though and he pushed them aside with grim determination. He had grieved Legolas' passing and now he was set on completing the next phase. First, get the coronation over with and then grant freedom to his people. So simple when one looked on the surface but beneath the veneer of simplicity laid an impossibly complex plan that Aragorn himself remained unsure about.

Still, first he had to concentrate on the day ahead. Once that chore was over, he could look to the future and concentrate on what must be done.

Faramir's voice, booming and strong and sounding very much like his father Denethor had done when he had lived, drifted into the throne room although Aragorn paid little attention to the actual words being spoken. He knew his cue was almost upon him. Faramir was lamenting the loss of soldiers fallen during the war and then commending the bravery of those who had fought and then wishing the swift return to health to those injured in defence of their city. Aragorn was glad that he didn't have to take on that particular responsibility. He didn't think he'd sound as convincing to the gathered crowds as Faramir did.

Aragorn took the few moments he had left on his own to pace back and forth, hoping to calm his nerves. Then he stood still and waited by the doors for the introduction he knew was coming. Faramir prattled on for a while longer and people lapped up his words of praise and sympathy. The Steward was a born public speaker, good at projecting empathy and praise upon his rapt audience.

"…Your king!" declared Faramir proudly and then dead silence as they waited.

That was his summons. Taking a deep breath, Aragorn pushed through the door and was almost knocked over by a wall of cheering noise that had burst into life at his appearance. He faltered on the top step, overwhelmed. Gazing out over the masses gathered to greet him, Aragorn could hardly believe what he was seeing with his own eyes. People were cheering him joyously. He couldn't pick out any faces he knew but he must have had friends out there and that calmed him somewhat.

Faramir sent him a small smile that Aragorn thought almost bordered on false. For all his many virtues, Aragorn still felt that Faramir still did not entirely trust him.

Aragorn took a deep breath as he waited for the people to be calm and quiet again. Then the ceremony began.

It was, just as had been promised, mercifully short. Faramir said a few short words about the responsibility of Crown and Kingdom and Aragorn wondered whether these were the words the kings before him had spoken or whether the Steward had just made them up. Then he was asked to kneel. A buzz of excitement filled the courtyard at this. Aragorn knelt on the step before the Steward. Faramir turned then and retrieved the King's crown from the pillow held out to him by Jecha. He moved it reverentially to Aragorn and lowered it slowly onto the king's head with great ceremony. No words. There was no need.

The crown nestled perfectly upon the dark hair, like it had been crafted for him alone to wear. The weight was significant; and not just the heavy gold but the meaning behind that ghastly-looking halo was immense. Aragorn's eyes slipped closed. Panic fluttered briefly in his heart but he did not allow the fear to overcome him and when he opened his eyes again it was to the smiling faces of his friends watching him with pride.

"Thank you," he said softly to Faramir and once more the man offered him a lacklustre smile.

Turning, Aragorn looked out over the people gathered, now watching in silence. The excitement had dimmed and given way to delight. Gondor's people mingled easily with the Rohirrim and the remaining Rangers, for the first time that Aragorn had seen. It brought gratification to his own heart to see at last that Men were willing to be united under one banner of the king.

For a long moment, he just studied them all, taking in the sight. So long he had worked towards this and now that the moment was finally here, he was pleased. His grief was put to the back of his mind for the time being as he focused only on what lay ahead of him. There would be time later to dwell on the past once more.

"Thank you all for being here," he called, his voice carried over the crowd on the light breeze, not as practiced as Faramir's but strong nonetheless. Shuffling ensued as the crowd waited for what would come next from their newly crowned king. This was the first time that Aragorn had addressed them as a whole. "Today is a day of celebration and also one of remembrance. Our fallen friends will forever be missed. What they sacrificed for the return of this city to the hands of Men will never be forgotten by any within the White City. Great Men all, they will live forever in our memories and we must ever strive to make their sacrifices worthwhile. We must fight for our Freedom; finish the work that they started upon Pelennor."

Uncertain silence followed this declaration. This was not the joyful speech they had been expecting this day.

"Tomorrow, we ride to Mordor. We will face our enemy, meet him head-on. And we will best him. The Dark Lord of Mordor will fall before the might of this Kingdom Reunited. And Men will be Free and powerful on Arda once more. I will not let this great kingdom fall again into the hands of the Shadow. Arda will stand free and whole once more and Men will lead the way to that victory."

Mumbling started up then. Definitely not what they had been expecting. Behind him, Aragorn felt the commanders shuffling uncertainly. He had not gone over with them what he would say and he was blatantly ignoring their advice of a soft approach for his first speech to the people.

"I know you are afraid of the future, and you are right to be so. I am afraid too. But we must be strong now. It is that strength that has carried us through so far. We are so close to the freedom we crave.

"It will not be easy. I will not lie. The battle will be hard. We may lose more. But we will not lose the war against the Shadow."

He touched upon the crown on his head, fingers caressing the fine jewels embedded into flawless gold. "I will ever strive to earn this great honour you have bestowed upon me," Aragorn got back to what Faramir had advised him to say to his people. "I thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Together we shall make this kingdom great once again. I know it."

Aragorn fell silent then, eyes gazing over the crowd one final time before returning slowly to the throne room and out of their sight.

"Uh, that was not what we discussed yesterday," Faramir said, hurriedly following him in and out of the sight of the people of Gondor.

"No." Aragorn removed the crown from his head. It was ceremonial; he had no intention of wearing it all the time. It was a relief to have the thing removed from his head.

"Why not?"

"Because they did not need to hear a pre-rehearsed speech. They needed the truth."

"To scare them into compliance?"

"If necessary."

Faramir sighed loudly then but moved on to the next topic he wanted to discuss with the king. "There was something else-"

"Yes?"

"My title." The Gondorian man had wanted to bring this up for a long while but had not found the opportunity. Aragorn glanced over his shoulder at him, eyebrows raised in question at the sharp change of subject. "We haven't discussed it yet but…the Stewardship. I know that technically now that there is a king there is no use for a keeper of Gondor but I believe I can still be useful to you-"

"You can keep your title, Faramir. I do have use for you as a Steward. In fact, your help will be invaluable."

"In keeping my men in line?"

"Among other things." Aragorn threw his jacket off and turned to Faramir, asking, "Was there anything else?"

"No, that was all. Unless you need anything."

"No, thank you."

With that, Aragorn found himself alone again in the spacious room. He walked to the tall window and looked out over the people still gathered outside. They had not begun to disperse yet, perhaps waiting for him to put in another appearance or maybe just basking in the wonderful celebratory feeling that blanketed the city. Aragorn didn't care. It didn't matter to him one bit their reasons for staying. Let them wallow in their relief for a while. Soon the respite would all be over and it would be back to war.

Not appreciating the feeling of being cooped up any longer than necessary, Aragorn left the throne room, avoiding areas of the city where he might meet any wandering Men not in attendance on the Seventh Level. He met no resistance at all, not even the guards posted around the city noticed him. Legolas had taught him well how to sneak. It was a skill that had come in handy many times and all his experience now worked to his advantage. Although it seemed a little strange, being forced to sneak around his own kingdom. From his hand dangled the golden crown of the Kings of Gondor. He couldn't bear to wear it all the time within the city just yet even though Faramir had suggested that that was exactly what the people expected of him; carrying it would have to suffice for the time being. At his side, Anduril rested patiently and solidly, bringing him inner strength with its mere presence. Legolas' white knives were tucked into his belt. In his pocket the Ring burned fiercely. It knew what was coming next.

Aragorn made his way through the deserted corridors, going ever lower until the grey light from outside dimmed into darkness and he was forced to tread carefully in the gloom so as not to stumble. For extra security, he trailed his hands along the walls in case he lost his footing down the steep, narrow staircase. There were no torches down here for there was not generally any need for them and he did not want to bring one with him. Over the years his eyes had grown quite accustomed to the darkness; it didn't bother him as it had done in his youth when all natural shadows scared him just as much as the unnatural ones did now in his adulthood.

There was a definite chill in the air but that was not the reason for the sustained trembling in his fingers. With the hand that held his crown, he pulled his jacket together although didn't button it up. Soon, he thought he would face the fire and would appreciate not being swaddled in thick clothing.

As he got nearer the bottom of the winding steps, a flickering orange light of torches began to illuminate the white stone. His destination lay just around the corner and Aragorn felt his heart begin to suddenly race. For the whole night and day he had been preparing himself mentally for the task ahead of him but now that the time was here, he faltered on the steps, grasping at the stone wall with his free hand to brace himself against his fear.

Taking a deep, somewhat shuddery breath to steady himself, Aragorn forced his feet to carry him around the corner and onto the plateau. The stone room that waited for him at the bottom of the stairs was magnificent, more so even than the throne room far above.

It was white stone, just like the rest of Minas Tirith's marvellous façade. Everywhere stood raised platforms on which rested the carved images of the kings past and valorous knights. This was the great crypt of the Kings and Stewards of Minas Tirith. Every care was taken to ensure that the dead royals of Gondor rested in spectacular peace beneath their living realm overhead. White marble was everywhere. Great blocks were carved in effigy of the fallen monarchs and warriors. Serene but eerily blank faces stared up at Aragorn as he passed them by. Blank white eyes stared at the ceiling, hands rested across broad chests, clasping long swords to their bodies as trophies, symbols of past glories before death had claimed them. On some of the plinths were carved inscriptions that Aragorn did not pause to read; words celebrating long, prosperous lives perhaps or extolling the virtues of kings considered to be better in retrospect than in life. It was a sad place, filled with reverence and memory. Aragorn thought it strange that the halls of the dead were more splendid than those of the living and he wondered at what his ancestors had thought of death. They respected it whereas he feared it, despised it. Different times, he supposed.

Although he was alone down here amongst the dusty bones of his ancestors, Aragorn walked quietly, respectfully past them. These men were better in his mind than his most fateful ancestor. They had not been tempted by Darkness and power. They had not ravaged their kingdoms with their poor decisions as Isildur had done. He felt that he could have learned a lot from these great men had he been able to communicate with them. But they offered him nothing but empty marble gazes now as he walked by them.

Legolas lay down here also. Aragorn had had to fight for the privilege; an Elf resting amongst kings of Men. Faramir had balked at the idea that the Elf be laid amongst the heroes of his people. But Aragorn had persisted. Legolas deserved this honour, perhaps more even than these men from times of relative peace, laying at rest in their caskets surrounded by opulent marble and jewels from when the world was an entirely different place. Faramir had eventually been overruled when Eomer also agreed that Legolas should be laid to rest in the crypts of Minas Tirith. The rest of the council had followed the decision of the king after that. And so the Prince of Mirkwood now laid amongst the Kings of Men. Apt seeing as he had restored their kingdom.

He was sealed within the tomb pre-prepared for Denethor and never used. What use was it, Aragorn had argued to an outraged Faramir when he had first made the suggestion, for the casket to go unused when there was one now who deserved it? It didn't help matters with Faramir that Denethor laid buried beneath the soil in an unmarked grave in Osgiliath. Aragorn decided as he walked amongst the Stewards' ancestors, that he would rectify that later when the war was over. Denethor, despite all his foibles, deserved a proper resting place like those who had come before him. He led his people for years, kept them alive at least. For that he deserved at least some kind of acknowledgement and respect.

Aragorn passed Legolas' tomb by without pausing. His fingers ran over the smooth, cool stone but he did not halt. If he did then he would be swayed from his path.

The source of his determination and anxiety rested on the lid of an ancient tomb, inscribed with writing too worn with age to be legible and covered with the same piece of fine Rohan cloth Aragorn had seen many times before. He came to a halt four paces from the tomb. For a long moment, he stared at the ball hidden beneath the finery. He could see nothing. The thing was dark and dormant but he felt like it knew he was there.

His hands still shaking slightly, Aragorn raised the heavy crown to his head and rested it carefully there, taking care that it was on straight and would look impressive enough to whatever awaited him. He straightened his jacket out, leaving it unbuttoned. It didn't matter either way. Next, he took Anduril from where it rested in his scabbard, pulled it out smoothly and looked up and down the impressive length of steel. The weapon thrummed in his hand, alive with mystical Elven strength.

Taking a deep breath, Aragorn took three paces forward and leaned forward to pull off the cloth from the Palantir. Immediately power blasted over him and the Stone burst into life, filling with its natural purple light. It churned like the clouds in the sky, its depths writhing and swirling.

Aragorn took the last step and stared unflinchingly into the orb.

"I am here," he said in what he had hoped would be a strong voice but what actually turned out to be little more than a faint squeak. Clearing his throat, he tried again and was more pleased with the result. "I am here," he shouted into the orb, confident of the fact that he would be heard.

Indeed, a moment later the Palantir exploded with orange light. A fire raged within and blasted out towards him and Aragorn recoiled slightly although he felt none of the heat he had been expecting. It was undoubtedly the Dark Lord that now looked back at him. A loud screech came from the Stone but Aragorn wondered whether it was in his mind rather than reverberating through the cavernous crypt. After the initial burst of flame, the Palantir quieted somewhat, still swirling orange, tempestuous fire in its depths but no longer roiling as if in anger.

"I see you," came a hissed voice that Aragorn recognised from his previous encounters.

Holding Anduril proudly up before him, Aragorn managed to keep the tremble out of his hand and his voice. "Here I am."

Laughter, low and contained. No worry. No concern. Humour at the tricks used by boys. "Fool."

"Maybe. You and I shall meet soon. Then we shall see."

More laughter, more filled with humour now than before. It found his declaration amusing. "Fool," hissed the disembodied voice again.

"Here I am."

Another hissed, "I see you."

"Come and get me." Aragorn raised Anduril higher. Sauron would not have forgotten the Sword that was Broken that was for sure.

And indeed, the voice screeched again but came with no other words. The flames within the Stone flared bright again; fuelled by the anger of the Master of Mordor, it seemed. Aragorn didn't care. Let him rage and scream.

"Come get me," he said one last time and then threw the cloth back over the Palantir, breaking the connection. He felt its power pushing against him, searching for a connection and he stepped away. It could no longer see him. The link was broken.

He smiled ever so slightly in satisfaction even as he trembled with fear and adrenaline. Sauron had gotten a glimpse of him and now he would covet more than ever that which he wanted. True, Aragorn would have preferred that Sauron openly declare war on him then and there, to have the firm knowledge that the Dark Lord was coming for him, but he could not say he had guaranteed that. And yet, Aragorn remained sure that Sauron would come. He was angry, furious at this bold intrusion, at the King of Gondor using his own weapon against him and showing him what the king had become. He would have seen the crown of kings resting upon the man's head and seen Anduril, the sword that had struck him down once before. Aragorn had not shown Sauron the Ring of Power for there was no need to. He knew that the Dark Lord would have felt the Ring calling to him and he himself had felt the pulsating power of the band growing almost unbearable in his pocket. It had taunted its Dark Master, just as the king had known it would. He knew also that it would infuriate Sauron to know of it. Aragorn had something he wanted and he was openly flaunting it before the Shadow. The temptation would be too great to resist.

A strange relief washed over Aragorn. It was done. His plan was in motion at last.

What happened next would determine whether he would ever get to stand in this crypt again, so he took the opportunity to go back to where Legolas lay. He laid his hand flat on the marble.

"I'm sorry," he said softly into the quiet. "Wish me luck for what lays ahead."

With that, he turned and left. The Palantir could stay down here gathering dust alongside the bones of his ancestors. He had no further use for it. He had conveyed his message; it was but just another piece of stone to him now. He left the torch burning. It would go out soon but for a while at least Legolas could rest bathed in light, just as he had always wished to be.

Perhaps when Aragorn returned here, he could convey good news to his fallen guardian. It would really be something to tell Legolas that he had succeeded, that it hadn't all been for nothing. He smiled a small smile to himself as he ascended the steep staircase back out to the upper Levels of Minas Tirith.

His reckoning was at hand. Soon the world would be changed forever and perhaps all who rested down here would be proud of their king.

**To Be Continued…**


	77. Preparing For War

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 77 – Preparing For War**

War. How used to it he had grown. From that frightened child who looked upon the Orcs as unbeatable monsters to run and hide from, to a strong man named a king who waded into battle without hesitation. He wondered often what his father would have thought of him. Would he have approved of what his son had become? Legolas had told him once that Arathorn would have been so immensely proud of him, of what he had achieved. Aragorn wasn't so sure. His memories of his father had become so faded that he could barely imagine what the man would say of him. Legolas had always been proud though and that was enough for Aragorn. After all, Legolas had been more of a father to him than Arathorn had ever been.

Legolas had taught him how to live, he had taught him how to fight his enemies. He had taught him to hunt for survival and how to kill Orcs that threatened him. Almost everything he knew about life came from the Elf.

Since knowing Legolas and being set upon this path to become king, Aragorn had become more used to war than anything. Peace, he had never known. Always had it been talked about in the abstract; what might happen if they achieved the impossible and won the war against the Dark Lord. He imagined that it would be quite a thing to see.

What he might do after the war was over had been running through his mind much of late. True, there was every chance that he might die before he got to see peace and he had come to terms with that fact long ago. But there was a small chance that he might actually live through this final encounter with the Shadow that had haunted him for so long, that he might beat Sauron and take back Freedom for Mankind. What then would he do?

He had considered going back to the start. Returning to the Old Forest Road and working his way to Mirkwood, seeing where Legolas had lived his life before it had all fallen apart. Perhaps then he would seek out all the Elven realms. Go to Lothlorien and walk amongst the magnificent Mallorn trees again and visit Imladris where he had met the stately Erestor and wizened Elrond. The thought, however, of travelling there alone without his Elven mentor was almost too much to bear. Without Legolas to point out all the intricacies of Elven culture, the journey seemed pointless.

It had been made clear to him by the advisors he had gathered about himself that there were many Human realms he would be required to visit in his position as King. For he was not just King of Gondor as his ancestors had been. He had been crowned King of Men. Legolas had told him much of the race of Men; not all of it good. He and his fellow commanders would have to go out and spread the word amongst the newly Free, perhaps gather them all together to join their cause and bolster the ranks of Men. Because even after the final battle was done, there would still be much to do. Even if Sauron was destroyed, the Orcs would remain. There had to be millions of them on the Earth; they would not simply disappear once Sauron was gone. They would have to be eradicated. None could be left for the filth of Shadow to build its armies anew. Then there was Mordor. Who knew what horrors Sauron had created within the walls of that kingdom. It would have to be cleansed, for Aragorn would not risk another uprising of Evil, not after they had fought so hard for victory. And, of course, there was Isengard. And who knew how many more fortresses of Evil stood filled with the Enemy? All would have to be dealt with and Aragorn would have to be at the very front of that effort.

Peace looked a long way away.

Sometimes, it seemed overwhelming. The amount of pressure that had been put upon him was immense. Sometimes, he felt it would swamp him and he would be lost to all. Only the thought of finally ridding the world of that most foul tyrant kept him going. He would have revenge for what had been taken from him. That drove him. He would not surrender to the darkness in his heart for he knew that Light would win through in the end. It had to.

True, despite his convictions, it was a challenge. But he still had some hope. He had committed himself to doing as Legolas had always advised: Taking one step at a time until he achieved what he had set out to. That was all he could do.

"Your Majesty, the manifest you asked for." A young man approached him nervously, never having had any direct contact with the king before. Aragorn was beginning to understand that his role had changed him in the eyes of people he would once have travelled with as an equal. It was hard, being treated so differently, especially seeing as he had never longed to be different, to be in charge of so many people. But now that he was in Minas Tirith, with everyone looking to him for guidance, he figured that he would have to accept it. This young man looked to him with open trepidation. Coming before the king in the throne room must indeed have been intimidating. Aragorn supposed he would have to get used to that.

Although the young man sent on this errand for the king bore signs on his body that he had been in the battle at Pelennor; bruises on his face, a slight limp, he did not seem perturbed at being demoted to messenger. Dutifully, he held out a roll of fabric stained with hastily printed numbers and lettering.

"Thank you."

He has been eagerly anticipating this message and he was relieved that at last Faramir and his men had finished compiling the information he had asked for. On the scrap of fabric were all the assets they still had available to them in Minas Tirith. He had asked for a record of anything that could be used in their assault on Sauron. He had ordered it be put together just a few hours ago, although truthfully he had expected it to take much longer than that. The men had worked fast to get it done for him. He appreciated their speed. Although Aragorn had himself walked all around Minas Tirith the day before and seen much of what they had available to them, it was impossible for one man to know everything at a glance so he had asked Faramir to assemble his men and to take inventory for him.

He paid the boy no further heed as he read through what they had scrawled on the paper. It was hardly ideal considering what they would soon be going up against but he supposed it would have to do. They had a few weapons; mostly swords, daggers and axes. There were also a couple of bows left but they were pretty much useless as all the arrows had been expended in the previous battle. At least Aragorn could confidently say that each of the men had at least one weapon each, not much when going up against the Shadow but it would have to be enough. They had faced worse odds than that, he reminded himself.

Planning, however, would only get them so far. His lure had worked well. Sauron was coming for them. Aragorn could almost feel it in the air. So could the other Men and they were eager now to meet the armies of Shadow.

Soon, the final battle would be upon them. Aragorn found that he was not nervous or afraid this time though. If anything, he was anxious for it to come. Finally, his fate, which had been so very uncertain for such a long time, would be decided. It would be a relief, he decided, when he met the Dark Lord for the first time in battle.

**OIOI**

"This is crazy."

"So you have said several times now," Aragorn said calmly to Eomer as he tightened his belt, which cinched his newly acquired tunic neatly at the waist. Now he was branded in fabric with the symbol of Gondor: Tree, Stars and Crown. That was what he represented now. Faramir had talked him into wearing it after he'd recovered it from storage, telling him that people would appreciate the familiar symbolism of their home. So he had agreed for he thought it a small sacrifice to make for people's peace of mind.

"Well, it is!"

"You knew this was the plan. I never tried to disguise that fact from anyone."

"I know that. I know. But it doesn't make it any less crazy, you know."

"You don't have to participate if you are afraid, Eomer. Stay here with the defenceless if that is what you want."

Eomer ceased his pacing and stared openly at Aragorn, who infuriatingly made every effort to ignore him. For a long moment, he said nothing, hard gaze piercing into Aragorn, so much so that Aragorn was reminded of confrontations between Eomer and his late guardian. At long last, Eomer broke the silence and said in a low voice, "My sister is going into battle with you. Did she tell you that?"

Grey eyes met green for a brief instant and then he looked away again, for he could not bear to see the accusation there. "Yes, she did."

"Did you ask her to join you?" Eomer's features tightened as he waited for the answer.

"Of course I did. I asked every man and woman capable of bearing arms to join in the effort."

The man released a long sigh of anger. "How could you? She's my sister!"

"I'm aware."

"And if she is killed?"

The thought hurt to even consider and yet he had done so many times since Eowyn had come to him and insisted that she could fight alongside the others. Who was he to refuse the willing? He could not say no to one whilst trying to persuade others of the cause. Besides, Eowyn was good with a sword. Her help would be invaluable.

"I cannot think about that, Eomer."

Silence, thick and accusing, followed and Aragorn felt the Rohan man's eyes on his back.

"What happened to you?" the man spat out, part in anger, part in disappointment. Aragorn decided not to answer and after a while of waiting for an explanation, Eomer finally turned away, realising he would get nothing. "You're growing more like him every day, you know?"

"Him?" Aragorn asked quietly, hearing the retreating footsteps of his friend.

"Your guardian."

That stung almost as much as the accusation that Eowyn's potential death lay on his shoulders and he paused for a moment to catch his breath. "You flatter me, Eomer. I would desire to be more like Legolas than anyone," he replied softly once he had gathered his wits.

"Take care, Aragorn. You might have loved and admired him, but his choices were not always good. And a lot of people got hurt, killed even, because of the mistakes he made. Do not be so quick to emulate him."

Aragorn turned, ready to fight for Legolas' honour but Eomer had already slipped from his rooms. He stood, mouth open ready for the now useless retort, for a long moment, before lowering his gaze from the door. Once more, he had been left alone.

For the time being abandoning his preparations to ride out, Aragorn sat down heavily in his chair and covered his face with his hands. Legolas should be here, telling him that he was doing the right thing, that he was making the right decisions for his people. For the past couple of days since his coronation, he had been trying to live by the code that Legolas had instilled in him, tried to be faithful to his guardian's plans. It was hard though, without that familiar guidance at his side.

Legolas would not have ignored the accusations made by Eomer. He would have fought them. But Aragorn found that he did not have the strength to fight as his guardian would have done. So he wore the symbols of the kingship as he was told. That did not make him a king. How was he supposed to lead his people to victory without help? He felt so lost. He had no one else to turn to. Faramir was all but useless to him, as was his council of Osgiliath. Eomer, Aragorn suspected, was out only to help the Rohirrim. The Rohan man wanted to remain in Minas Tirith where he thought they would be safe and Aragorn couldn't blame him for wanting that; the Rohirrim had been through much hardship. They wanted peace without the battle. That, Aragorn would have done anything to provide but it was beyond his means. It hurt, to feel so powerless. He had felt it so many times before in his life but back then he had always had someone there to buck him up, to tell him that what he was doing was right. Now, he had no one. Only Jecha remained entirely committed to the plan they had constructed and Aragorn would have expected nothing less from the Easterling. Ever had he been loyal. Strange, he thought, that he should trust the one amongst them that Legolas has never appreciated.

He sighed and straightened out. Now was not the time to be plagued by doubt. There was much to do and he knew that he needed to convey the illusion of strength even if he didn't feel it inside. His people were relying on him. That would have to be incentive enough.

A knock at the door startled Aragorn from his increasingly dark thoughts.

"Enter," he called wearily, hoping that it was not another lecturer coming to tell him what he was doing wrong. He wasn't sure how much more of that he could handle.

It was not another lecture though, but rather Gimli. Aragorn was somewhat surprised at the appearance of the Dwarf. Since the battle in which his father had been killed, Gimli had not often been seen and Jecha had even begun to suspect that he had left the city entirely. But here he was, standing as tall as his short stature allowed him, tidy and clean with a renewed steel in his dark eyes and ancient steel in the form of his massive battle axe in his hand.

"Gimli," Aragorn greeted getting up as the shorter being stood before him uncertainly for a moment. "I am sorry for the loss of your father."

Gimli nodded once, pain flashing briefly in his eyes and disappearing before Aragorn had a chance to analyse or even acknowledge it. Running one calloused hand down the length of his beard, Gimli opened his mouth as if to speak but then changed his mind and instead straightened out his body again before suddenly lowering himself down onto one knee before the King of Men and bowing his head low.

"I will serve you now, King Aragorn," he said solemnly, head still bowed to the floor in respect.

For a moment, Aragorn was too stunned to comment. Gimli knelt before him on the flagstones, head bowed in supplication with such sincerity that it hurt to look at. The painful knot that had rested in his chest ever since he had been crowned tightened further still.

"Gimli," the king whispered. When the Dwarf did not look up, Aragorn stepped forward and knelt in front of him so that they were once more on the same level. "Please, do not bow so to me." He eased the Dwarf's head up and deep brown eyes locked with his. "Thank you for your pledge. I will need you, I think, before the end."

"Then you shall have my fealty, King. You have given these people much. I must do my part towards the changing of the world. It is what Gloin would want from me."

"And Legolas too."

Aragorn's own head bowed, almost of its own accord. Gimli's rough hand appeared on his forearm and he smiled ever so slightly at the small act of comfort that nevertheless gave him strength.

"He was the bravest I have ever seen."

Aragorn's eyes rose to the kind gaze of the Dwarf and he smiled again. "Yes, he was. And I will make him proud, Gimli; if it is the last thing I do on this earth."

"We both have the incentive to beat that filthy usurper back into his cave then," chuckled the smaller creature darkly. "Sauron will regret ever messing with the sons of great warriors."

"That he will."

Gimli nodded, somewhat tearfully, and then climbed back up to his feet, watching as Aragorn did the same, subtly wiping his own eyes as he rose.

"Well," the Dwarf smiled somewhat shakily behind his beard, "get some rest. The time is nearing. You must be ready."

**OIOI**

The ground trembled with the sheer mass of moving creatures. The sound was almost unbearable even for those who should have been accustomed to such a cacophony. Like thunder from the centre of the earth. Beneath the soles of thousands of heavily booted feet, the ground was dry from the lack of rains and the air was stiflingly hot, would have been unbearable had they not all been so very used to the climate, having been created in the desert environment. Dark dust filled the air, turning it almost opaque, making it nearly toxic to breathe and impossible to see. But they didn't need eyes to know where they were going. The sheer mass of moving bodies made it all but impossible to get lost on the way and they were being led by the spectres of Mordor themselves, the Wraiths; the Nazgul had no need for vision and would lead the following army true.

Each Orc in the great army was kitted out with their usual scavenged armour but they had been equipped with many more weapons than they were used to. None knew where their master had gotten so much weaponry at such short notice but they were glad for it. It might have added extra bulk to what they had to carry but they knew that they were destined to face the opposing army of Light and it brought measurable comfort to be so heavily armed.

Expectation hung heavy in the air, spread further with every heavy step forwards. And it was not just meeting the United Men in battle that charged the atmosphere. At the front of the army on a great black war horse, rode the Dark Lord himself and he had an almost physical effect on everything around him.

Never before had their master ridden out of the confines of Mordor with them. In fact, most creatures that made up the Black Army had never seen their most feared master leave the Dark Tower. Most had never even laid eyes on their Lord. Hence the high levels of excitement, fear and expectation permeating the air.

Sauron sat tall on his great stallion. Once the huge black beast had carried the Witchking himself, but he no longer had need for it. Sauron felt no guilt for taking another's steed. His needs were paramount. And the other Wraiths would not care. Their king was dead but still they answered to a greater authority. That was all they cared about now.

Sauron thought as he steeled himself for the uncomfortable ride that would take him beyond the protective confines of Mordor, that perhaps Aragorn's army had done the Shadow a great favour. The boy had taken the Mouth of Darkness away and then Witchking of Angmar. Both great, powerful creatures. And the false king no doubt believed this to be a massive coup. But perhaps he didn't realise that by taking away the two powerful beings, he had invited hatred beyond anything he could possibly have imagined. The Wraiths had lost a brother and they felt that loss keenly. They would show no mercy in battle now. They would scythe through the legions of Men until they found the one who had taken the life of their Ninth, the would kill with relish the one who had made them incomplete.

Sauron didn't care about the one who had taken the life of a Wraith. And he didn't care that the others sought revenge. Let them search for the being who had stripped them of their wholeness. All that mattered was that during the course of their crusade they take out as many of the wretched Human race as possible and bring the King of Men down into the dirt where he belonged.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his dry, cracked lips at this thought. In his mind he could already see the pitiful creatures falling, could see the ground gloriously soaked with the foul red blood of Men. He could picture the horror on their faces when they realised what they were being led up against by their king. He could imagine them falling to their knees before him, begging and pleading for life, pledging their allegiance to him in a last desperate attempt at salvation. And he would not be merciful. They had not deserved it. He would kill them all. One by one. The women first and then the men and finally the terrified children would fall once they had seen their forebears fall to the Shadow. The race of Men was useless to him now. They had overstepped their bounds and he would make them pay for that folly in blood.

And Aragorn…the one who had challenged him, who had been so foolish as to summon him into battle, he would fall soon too. Sauron would allow no other to kill Aragorn. He wanted him for himself. The false King would be his.

It had angered him beyond anything else that he had been summoned to the raging Seeing Stone and watched as the self-professed King of Men stood before him, bold and proud and unafraid, and challenged him to battle. None had ever dared to face him thusly before. It was a bold move and one that he could not abide. How could he let such insolence slide? It had been humiliating. And yet at the same time he had been excited by the prospect. For so long, he had ached for a true confrontation but truthfully, he had been afraid of leaving the sanctuary of his home. But Aragorn had called him out and his pride would not allow him to ignore the call of a lesser warrior. So he had finally deigned to go ahead with his long-formed plan and face the army of Men head on. Let them see what a true warrior looked like in battle. Let them whine and quell before the splendour of Mordor.

He smiled again. He could hardly wait to see the look of terror on Aragorn's face when he realised that Sauron, the Dark Lord of Arda himself, had ridden into battle.

It didn't matter that his Elven host body was crumbling, more so since they had started off on this hard journey across the mountains. Pain assailed him constantly now, aching in every inch of him. But it didn't matter in the least. The pain would be worth it. And when this was over, he would have his most Precious back and then he would reign supreme over all of Arda and any opposition would quail before him.

The thought propelled him, heartened him.

No, he could hardly wait to meet Aragorn, ward of Legolas in battle.

**To Be Continued…**


	78. Loyalty To The King

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who is continuing to read and thank you for the reviews. I hope you will enjoy this new chapter.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 78 – Loyalty To The King**

Fabric branded with the emblems of Gondor flapped and snapped softly in the perfect breeze, occasionally snagging around the hastily crafted poles on which the banners of the king were held proudly aloft. The bearers subtly shook them until they flew straight and proud once more, not letting the wind dull the splendour of this moment. They led the way ahead. The entire army of Men followed them into battle. It was a great and rare honour, the young standard-bearers knew, to carry the emblem of Gondor and a greater honour still to do so at the side of the king returned, a ceremony not observed for hundreds of years now.

Aragorn's hard, determined grey gaze was fixed straight ahead, unwavering, unyielding. He had no cause to look behind him. He knew his people followed faithfully. At his side walked the standard-bearers and he could feel their pride and their excitement. Long had they waited for this, to march under a unified banner into battle against Middle Earth's greatest and most terrifying foe, the oppressor of the Human Race. They knew also, what it was they were marching into. Aragorn had spared no detail, even as his counsellors had advised against such brutal honesty. He had insisted on full disclosure, stating that no Man would be branded a coward should he or she wish to remain behind in the protection of Minas Tirith. Faramir had been furious at his candour. But it had paid off. Few had taken the safe route, even those who might have not been considered suitable for battle had aligned themselves in the envoy on Gladden Fields ready to march against the vast might of Mordor.

Aragorn had felt such immense love and pride for them that tears had welled in his eyes as they had come forward to proclaim their loyalty. But he was a commander, a king, and could not be seen to fall apart before those he commanded, so he had shoved this unprecedented emotion aside and had led them out of their newly reclaimed lands, ignoring the hundreds of people deemed unsuitable to go into battle – the old, young and infirm – behind them, seeing them off and praying for a swift and victorious return.

A strange peace had settled in his heart as he'd stood at the gates of Minas Tirith, soldiers swarming around him as they prepared for the great march. He knew for once that he was doing the right thing and that there was no other reasonable course of action. All doubt, all fear had left him and he felt for the first time like the leader he was born to be, like the leader they expected him to be. A weight had been lifted off his shoulders. This was his birth-right and he knew now what that meant. How much he had always underestimated it. He could not escape his destiny, for everything that had happened in his life so far, every challenge, tragedy and lesson had led him to this very moment, where he stood united with a people who looked to him for guidance and loved him as their king.

Perhaps his change of heart had some bearing on the people who now stood behind him, undeterred by the massive task that awaited them. Maybe they could sense the change in their previously reluctant king. If so, then Aragorn was glad, because he knew he would need their faith in the years to come. It would be no easy battle and the unfailing allegiance of his people would determine his victory, not just against Sauron but also against the deep seated Shadow that darkened their lands.

Not that Aragorn was not slightly nervous about the upcoming meeting of the two great armies. He knew well the dangers, knew what he would have to face at the end of this march. And he could not truthfully call himself confident, for in his heart he knew that Sauron would do everything in his power to destroy him entirely. But he remained determined and that had to count for something.

He had walked at the front of the lines the whole time, never falling behind or pushing too far forward. He was one with his army. That was vital. They had to know that he would always be beside them, during the march, into battle and when the war was done and they were granted their freedom. They appreciated that. He set a steady if slightly fast pace, following the path towards Mordor, well-trodden over the years by much Orc traffic to and from Minas Tirith. Sauron too would come this way, he was sure. Why would the Dark Lord make things hard for himself and his army? On his head, Aragorn wore the Crown of Gondor, impractical in battle but perfect for the morale his people so desperately needed and that was important considering what they were walking into. He wore a tunic emblazoned with the emblem of Gondor, he was dressed in clean clothes, handed to him by an elderly woman the night before who insisted he take them as her contribution to the effort, although she refused to tell him where she had gotten the uniform from. He appreciated it nonetheless. It made him feel better somehow; like a true leader for a change. Anduril hung at his side, patient but ready for action and Legolas' knives say at his other side. He almost smiled at himself when he judged himself to look almost as impressive as the Easterling Jecha who marched at his side, a pace behind him out of respect. Legolas would have laughed at that, he was sure.

Jecha was not alone at Aragorn's side though. Interspersed between the standard bearers were the other commanders. Janor, Faramir, Halbarad. Gimli was there too, having sworn fealty to Aragorn and told the King that he would stand at his side the whole time – literally, it seemed. Eomer rode at the far end of the line, for he was atop a great war horse. Behind him rode several more of the Rohirrim, their best horseback warriors. Not many of the beasts had survived thus far but the Rohirrim loved their horses and Eomer had told any objectors that he would not feel right riding into such a battle without them. They were certainly impressive. Alternately, they carried the banners of Rohan and Gondor. Truly Men united.

Everyone else walked as one block behind the commanders. Gondorians mingled with the remaining Rohirrim and the Rangers. Never, back when they had first joined forces, would Aragorn have ever imagined that he would witness such a thing. Their oneness bolstered him further still. There was no joviality in the air though. No one spoke much, expect to utter the odd comment on their journey. Certainly, there was no laughter or rousing song. Confident in their path they may have been but they were experienced enough to know what lay ahead and it was no laughing matter. The mood did not seem right to rejoice in the upcoming battle. It would be a relief when it was all over with but there was no need to celebrate its coming.

The army was armed to the teeth. Every weapon that had been within Minas Tirith, whether it be of Human or Orc creation, had found its way onto the soldiers. They carried them in their hands, in packs, strapped to their backs, in sheaths – any way they could. Nothing was wasted. There were swords, daggers, axes, a cruel selection of Orkish whips, bows and arrows, pikes, lances. So many weapons slowed them down a little but it was worth it for such an armoury. They would be needed.

Aragorn himself carried only three weapons: the dagger which he had carried for most of his life tucked into his belt, Legolas' white handled knives and of course Anduril itself. But it felt enough. More than enough. Each weapon had defeated Orc and Uruk many times before. No reason why this time should be any different. He was not kitted out in armour, although a few of the other soldiers, mostly those from Gondor had deemed it an acceptable risk to forsake manoeuvrability for a second, metal skin. Personally, Aragorn found it too constricting, too annoying. Clunky and awkward, metal armour wasn't for him. Out of the other commanders, only Faramir wore a metal breastplate, etched with the symbol of Gondor. A family heirloom perhaps, Aragorn thought, saved by Denethor or some ancestor after deserting Minas Tirith the first time. He didn't begrudge the man that. He hoped it brought comfort to him.

They were making good time on their march, moving quick and steady, winding towards the mountains but Aragorn did not let them pause for rest. He had a destination in mind for the confrontation and he wanted to reach it with some time to spare before the Dark Army approached. Nobody seemed to mind the pace too much. They were eager to get somewhere where they might have some kind of advantage against their enemy. So there were no complaints either, which Aragorn appreciated. In spite of his new-found confidence, he wasn't sure that he could handle a barrage of complaints from his people.

Finally, they came to the place that Faramir had described during the stages of planning. It was a near perfect point of attack for the Men. Near the base of the great mountain range dividing Gondor from Mordor, they could easily see the massive Shadow army coming their way. It was good strategically because from the slopes, no weapon could traverse the distance and do them any harm and there was a deep dip at the base of the mountains, so they would have time to prepare before Sauron's army could attack them. It gave them a rare advantage and Aragorn found himself pleased that Faramir had been sensible enough to look at the maps and find such a camping place for them. At the very least, it put them on a more even footing with the Dark Army and Aragorn would take whatever small advantage he could get.

It was almost twilight by the time they stopped at the peak of the hill. Sentries were sent out to survey the area and defences were set up. No shelter was available but they were fortunate enough that the weather remained warm and dry. It perked up spirits even more. Upon Aragorn's order, everyone went about setting everything they needed up. Fires were lit and food was started cooking. There was no reason to conceal their whereabouts. Sauron knew they were there. Any signal that hastened the Dark Lord's approach, Aragorn considered a positive so they were ordered to build the fires up as much as possible with the fuel they had available. Let the Darkness come to the beacons of Gondor.

"Well, here we are," sighed Eomer, having dismounted his horse and passed it off to another of the Rohirrim to care for. "No turning back now."

Aragorn stripped off his jacket, realising for the first time that he was sweating in the heat and asked, "You weren't ever thinking about turning back, were you?"

"Of course not. Still: the point of no return."

"That is good."

"If you say so." Eomer looked around at the gathered Men as they unpacked their meagre belongings and set up blankets for sleeping on the ground. There was a buzz of excitement in the air now and certainly a relief that the march was over. Eomer's gaze drifted back to Aragorn and he asked, "Do you need anything?"

"No."

"Then I'll leave you to rest." His green eyes moved over instead towards the mountains. They looked increasingly dark and threatening as the sun's light left the grey, overcast skies.

Sauron was just beyond those towering mountains, coming ever closer to them. Aragorn could almost feel his presence. A gentle tingle of anticipation – not necessarily born out of fear – rippled through him every so often, reminding him of what was coming. And the Ring in his pocket fairly screamed at him. It knew what was coming, could feel the change and he knew it wanted to get back to its master. Shoving aside the feeling, he shook his head and left Eomer staring at the dark mountains.

Sleep, he feared, would evade him this night but he laid down on the cold, hard ground and tried to rest anyway. It was sensible, to gather his strength to him before the fight came. For a long while, he laid with his eyes closed, feigning sleep until finally it crept over him and he drifted into reassuring, smothering darkness.

He dreamed, unsurprisingly, of Mordor. He dreamed of the Dark Lord, huge and dark against the raging flames lapping all around him. Sauron stood there, laughing at his attempts to reach him through the fire, at his screams as the heat scorched his skin. The more frustrated Aragorn became, the louder the Dark Lord laughed. When the amusement had died, Sauron simply stepped forward and with one great blow of Anduril, which he now held snugly in his hand as if it had always been there, ended the life of the King of Gondor.

It was at this point that Aragorn woke up, sweat beading on his forehead and chest, which was heaving with every strained breath he took. He was not dead, he realised with a surge of relief. But the fear of it remained and he didn't dare go back to sleep after that. Instead he laid on his back, looking up at the clouded sky, hand fisted around the band of gold still held in his pocket, thinking of what the next day would bring.

**OIOI**

The next day, it turned out, brought very little but rain. The heavy skies opened and for an hour after dawn, it poured from the sky in great splashes, soaking everything and everyone almost instantly. The Men fought to keep the fires lit but soon gave up the battle and instead focused on keeping their remaining supply of food and wood dry. They sat huddled under whatever shelter they had – blankets, jackets. Only the horses revelled in the deluge. They seemed to love being soaked after the intense heat of the journey.

Aragorn spent most of the day staring at the mountains, what little of them he could see through the haze of rain. No sign yet had been seen by any of the scouts of the approaching army of Shadow, but Aragorn didn't require visual confirmation. He could hear them coming. He could feel them coming.

By the next evening, the rain had ceased and the heat had made it almost unbearably muggy and a fine mist was beginning to settle around them, almost shrouding the mountains from sight once more. It made the Men understandably nervous. They feared that they would not be able to see the approach of the Black Army, that Sauron and his minions would simply sneak up on them and the fight would be over before it began. Aragorn did not fear this though. Sauron's army, upon its approach, would be so blatantly obvious that not even the thickest fog could conceal its coming. He doubted that the Dark Lord would sneak up on them anyway. For all his faults, he had pride and would not be reduced to creeping around in the shadows. He'd want to face his foes head on, prove his strength. Just like Aragorn would.

Passing this reassurance on to his men proved all but useless however, so Aragorn ceased trying after a while and let their feeling of tension wash over him. He hoped that his peace, his serenity over the whole issue would go some way to easing their own tension but they remained tense and alert, eyes ever trained on the mountains.

The evening was quiet once more.

"The watches have all been set, my Lord," Jecha came to inform him, crouching down next to him and following his gaze up to the mountainside.

"Good. He may send scouts ahead to meet us."

"Then we'll be prepared."

Aragorn nodded and turned to face the man with a small smile. "Thank you, Jecha."

Dark eyes turned to the king and there was a glint of a smile hiding behind them. "For what exactly are you thanking me?"

"You have been very…loyal."

"Loyalty is a much lauded quality amongst my people." He stood up again, tall and strong beneath his garish robes. "I thank you for the compliment, my Lord."

Aragorn just laughed softly, a short chuckle that seemed more edgy than it did amused. "Do you think we will survive this, Jecha? Do you believe we'll come out the other side of this battle alive?"

"I thought that didn't matter to you."

The king shrugged. "It doesn't, I suppose. Long ago I pledged myself to this quest. I cannot, will not, turn back now." He sighed, heavy and deep. "To the very end."

A gloved hand was lowered to Aragorn's shoulder and squeezed gently in reassurance. "Let us hope his end and not ours."

"Let us hope."

For a moment, Aragorn fought not to squirm under the man's intense stare but finally it was broken and Jecha told him, "Get some rest tonight."

"I'll try."

Then he was alone again. The camp fell quiet and Aragorn decided to take Jecha's advice. He laid down on the ground and pulled his jacket tight around him. Arms folded around his chest, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. The shrouding mist, however, was, despite all his assurances to the others, making him uneasy as well. He found that he felt somewhat constricted by it and wished that he could simply open his eyes and see what lay ahead of him. Legolas, he knew would have berated him for such foolishness. There was no point in wishing for a change in the weather. One simply had to make the most of it.

Sleep snuck up on him after a few hours but it was short-lived.

He wasn't quite sure what woke him up. A feeling, perhaps. Whatever it was, it startled him. He sat up abruptly, looking about himself to find that the mists had dissipated somewhat and that in the light of the still burning fires, he could see the shapes of his sleeping men all around him. The camp was quiet and yet the feeling that something wasn't right tingled on the edges of Aragorn's senses, warning him to be wary.

His attention was instinctively drawn towards the mountain range towering over them. Even now, he could still sense the Darkness that was coming towards them and he focussed now on it more intensely. Getting to his feet, he stepped around sleeping bodies and squinted up the mountainside. There it was. The thing that had disturbed him, so small that he would never have noticed it had he not been searching. Vague lights shimmered near the summit, in exactly the place where Faramir had said the army of Darkness would come.

A haze of orange was all that he could see but he knew what it meant. Sauron was coming at last.

"It seems that they are not fearful of detection either," Jecha said, startling Aragorn as he emerged from the shadows where he had been sitting for most of the night, watching and waiting for just this moment.

"There is no point. They know we know they're coming. What use is there in hiding?"

Jecha nodded wisely and turned his gaze back to the slow-moving orange haze.

"Impossible to tell how many," he commented, unable to determine just how large the army was from the blur of torchlight.

"All of Mordor will come. He will spare nothing to end this."

Dark eyes flickered to the king at his side. "Reassuring."

"It won't matter. Sooner or later we would have had to rid the earth of them anyway."

"And the sooner the better, you think?"

"Yes."

Jecha found himself surprised and mightily impressed by this sudden and unprecedented change in the young king. "They'll be here within the day."

"But they will wait until darkness to attack. The night is more natural to them and easier for the Orcs to bear, even under the clouded skies."

"That could make things difficult for us."

"Perhaps marginally more difficult than during the daytime, I suppose. But it will make no real difference to our effort."

For a long moment, grey eyes scanned the dark expanse where the mountains stood impressively tall and came to rest upon the orange smudge of torchlight in the far distance. Then, with a soft sigh, Aragorn turned away from the threatening sight and returned to sit near the fire. He knew he wouldn't get back to sleep now, despite his calm façade, adrenaline surged through him and his heart beat fast in anticipation. So he settled for simply watching the flickering of the flames from his own fire. He wondered idly whether Sauron could see their flames in the distance, whether he worried about the numbers of Men assembled at the base of the mountains. Aragorn hoped so. He hoped Sauron was afraid of what awaited him and yet he doubted it. He doubted Sauron would fear him.

**OIOI**

Aragorn watched the dawn come before he got up and began waking people around him. He wanted his Men to be ready for what was now coming. There were preparations still to do. Weapons needed readying, strategies needed working through and perfecting. He was sure that they wouldn't appreciate being woken so early from what might well be the last peaceful night they had for a while, but he was restless and could wait no longer to do something.

The day was spent doing just that: Preparing. He checked everything. He had soldiers taking aside the new-comers to battle, going over the basic weapons training and attempting to get them ready for what lay ahead, refreshing what they had been taught. It might have been an impossible task but he hoped that it would make them feel a little better about going into battle.

The camp was busy, Men running everywhere. Aragorn liked it like that. It made it feel like maybe he was doing something useful. He knew though that today would be otherwise quiet.

Much to his surprise, he was proven wrong. At midday, he told people to get some rest, which they all did with relief. He wanted them to be rested up before they clashed with the army of Shadow in battle; they would need all their strength for what lay ahead. However, things were not quiet. As everyone settled down, a call came up from the scouts around the large camp.

Immediately, everyone leapt up, scrambled to get ready, snatched up their weapons, afraid that the attack was coming earlier than the commanders had predicted. They remained standing, still, waiting, banners flapping in the wind, with Aragorn at the front, as bemused as all the others. But nothing happened. It was eerily quiet and he figured the prelude to the attack would be noisy and violent.

With every man on edge, the Human scout who appeared was lucky not to have been struck down as he emerged from the haze of the daylight. Upon seeing hundreds of swords, spears and knives pointed directly at him, ready to strike him down, the scout, riding one of the precious Rohan horses, skidded to a halt and instinctively threw up his hands in a non-threatening gesture.

"I'm an ally. Don't shoot!" he called desperately to the warriors.

No one moved, as though fearing that this was some kind of terrible trick, until Aragorn lowered Anduril to the ground and Eomer, finally recognising one of his own scouts, called the all clear.

"I bring news," the scout told them once the threat to his life had passed.

"They're here." Aragorn spoke softly but the words were heard clearly enough for everyone was holding their breath waiting for the news the scout bore.

The feeling amongst the Men changed again suddenly at hearing this. Panic riffled through the crowd and they turned to one another, whispering their fears and occasionally their excitement. Aragorn let their emotions wash over him as he always did. He would not be pulled down by the terror of the upcoming fight. Besides, he still firmly believed that Sauron would not launch an attack until after nightfall. It was the only strategy that made sense.

So, much to the bemusement and irritation of his army, Aragorn sent them back to rest up some more, although he was prudent enough to place further security around the perimeter and also send the scouts back out to report back on the Dark army's approach. He had, after all, been wrong before, and he would not risk the lives of his men on a hunch.

They would wait for the Dark Lord to come. Aragorn would not risk his winning due to some skittish men eager for battle. He could feel Sauron now. So close, almost breathing down his neck. He could sense the tension in the air and knew that it came also from the Shadow army as well as his own. The united Humans had, after all, taken down the Dark Lord's first lieutenant as well as one of the dreaded Nazgul. His army would be foolish not to be afraid. Aragorn took some comfort in that thought. Soon he would face the one who had influenced his life, who had altered its course forever. And he was not afraid.

**To Be Continued…**


	79. The War Of Light And Shadow Part I

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: Thank you for all the reviews. Hope you enjoy the chapter.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 79**

**The War Of Light And Shadow – Part One**

Dusk brought with it the overwhelming threat of attack. All the Men gathered in the mountains could now clearly sense the force waiting for them just out of sight. Aragorn had his army assembled and they worked quickly and efficiently in lighting enough torches for them to see what they were doing, getting their weaponry ready and getting the Men in the right places for the attack. They worked quietly, the threat of their impending doom hanging over them and stealing from them the need to make conversation or lighten the mood. Long had they waited for this moment and all were determined that they would not be deterred now, not when their salvation lay so close at hand. Each was focussed on what they had to do, on what was coming.

Faramir, Eomer and Aragorn stood tall and proud before the crowd, great kings of Men in their own right many times proven their worth in the eyes of their followers. Their presence was a balm for those awaiting the battle. After all, if the king was not afraid then it had to mean something. Men said that he had seen more than most of what lay ahead. The three of them gazed coolly into the distance, shrouded though the view was by the darkness of night and the impending battle with the Shadow. Behind them, stood their own army. Nowhere near as vast as the one currently locked in a showdown with them but to Aragorn impressive enough all the same. He felt pride stirring within him every time he chanced a glance over his shoulder at the sea of Humans who had pledged fealty and love to him and his cause. He admired them for their resolve and their bravery and hoped that despite his still nagging doubts he could match their valour.

The only thing lighting the field of battle now were the torches flicking on both sides and the occasional bolt of lightning that illuminated the grey skies overhead. No rain accompanied the storm as of yet but Aragorn feared that it was only a matter of time before the heavens opened. It always seemed to rain when they were in the midst of battle. This time though, he thought that maybe it was the Dark Lord's doing for although he could not see him Aragorn could sense Sauron was close, just as he could sense that the terrible Wraiths of Mordor had also come.

In his pocket, the Ring of Power thrummed both reassuringly and terrifyingly. It felt its true master close and it fought to get back to him. Aragorn found that he both longed to touch it and also wished greatly to recoil from its dark, frightening power. He fought valiantly against both impulses and tried to block it from his mind completely. He had, after all, plenty else to focus on at the moment.

"Ready for this?" asked Eomer from his side.

"Do I have a choice?"

"No."

"Well then." He smiled at the man at his side and Eomer offered a tight smile back.

The thunderous noise that heralded the approach of Sauron's army finally started to come to an end as they halted and eerie silence fell again over the mountains. Aragorn shivered slightly, releasing his newly wound up tension with a long deep breath.

"Be ready," he said softly to Faramir and Eomer. They relayed the message back: the fight would start soon.

Another flash of lightning showed Aragorn a brief glimpse of what they had put themselves up against. The closest rank of the army of Shadow was closer than he had expected it to come. It consisted, as it had when they attacked Minas Tirith, of mainly Goblins. They were the fodder sent before the true fight began. Not that it mattered to Aragorn. Compared to the Orcs and Uruk-hai and other monsters that made up Sauron's Dark army, they would be easy to kill.

The flash of pure white light revealed just how massive Sauron's force assembled behind the ranks of Goblins was though. It eclipsed Aragorn's best efforts.

Clearly the other Men also saw what they were faced off with as Aragorn heard them shuffling uncertainly behind him for the first time since assembling.

"Hold the lines," he called back so they could hear him. He hoped it would settle them again, although to him their reaction was perfectly understandable and appropriate. Had he been standing amongst them and not before them he would probably have done the same. "Hold." Now was not the time to panic. He needed them to appear strong.

"Ready yourselves," he called and behind him he heard the satisfying sound of hundreds of swords being drawn from sheaths. It was most encouraging and a small smile tugged at his lips. He hoped that it elicited some fear within the Dark army too. At the same time, he drew Anduril from its sheath and held it proudly aloft, taking a moment to look up and down the length of the marvellous long blade. It shone as bright and proud as ever, etched with Elvish runes which meant nothing to him but also filled him with hope. It was ready for battle; he could feel it. He was ready. He concentrated for a moment on the strength flowing down through the re-forged metal; the sheer impossible power of the Light gifted him by the Elves. Such a great gift and finally it was meeting with its destiny just as he was. Fate. It never failed to amaze him.

His reverie was disrupted by a sudden cry from before him. He couldn't understand the command for it was spoken in the Black Language, but he could guess that it was the Shadow's own call to readiness. This was confirmed a moment later when the relative peace was shattered by the terrifying sound of thousands of weapons being drawn. The noise was awesome, far exceeding that which Aragorn had hoped would unsettle the Shadow. Certainly his own Men were unsettled by the noise. He could feel the panic in them, the growing fear.

Aragorn's heart plummeted in his chest but he would not show his disappointment or fear now, not before his people. He raised Anduril up higher so that his troops could see it and the standard-bearers also raised the banners up, following his lead.

Glancing to his side, he saw Eomer and Faramir; both their own swords raised high as Anduril, unafraid. They had been waiting for this moment for a long time. After tonight they would either be granted freedom or be brought to their deaths. Either way, Aragorn imagined it would be a relief to finally know the ending. He locked eyes with Eomer and gave a small nod. Thanks, readiness and sadness all in one slight movement.

Turning away from his friends, Aragorn looked behind him. He could see his people, anxious and yet determined now. There was such love and trust upon their faces. That startled him to a degree. Before, they had merely followed him, as a subject would follow a ruler. But now, he knew for sure that they loved him. They wanted to fight, not for Gondor, but for him. It was humbling. How he longed to shake every hand in thanks, to offer a reassurance of peace. There was no time for such things though and he was secretly glad for this because he doubted he would have the strength. Perhaps when the battle was done and he had regained his confidence once more he would tell each and every Man what he thought of them.

He offered the Men no great speeches of encouragement now. The time for rousing speeches had long since passed. Instead, he turned back to the army of Shadow just in time to see their own torches slowly beginning to flare into life as they were lit. He knew what they were doing. Intimidation. Little did they know that it wouldn't work. His Men had met their kind before and they had emerged victorious, had stolen the Witchking from their ranks. That was no small feat. Let Sauron posture all he wanted.

Growing tired of waiting and seeing an advantage in their momentary distraction in trying to frighten their enemy, Aragorn raised Anduril higher once more and took one small step forward, bringing him out of line with the other men in his rank. He felt anticipation peak behind him. They knew what was happening now. The time had come.

Then, he, the King of Gondor, let forth a cry of attack and ran forward into battle.

Behind him ran Faramir and Eomer, just as they had sworn to do. Jecha also was close by as were the combined forces of the Rangers. All his friends, standing in fellowship by his side. It gave him strength. He took up a two-handed grip upon Anduril as he clashed with the front line of Goblins.

Not caught so much off guard that they couldn't fight, the Shadow army immediately leapt into action.

Aragorn didn't get far before he met his first real skirmish. Already Anduril had shed the black blood of the Enemy, the sword dripped with it, but it was Goblin blood and meant little to Aragorn. He wanted Orcs and Uruk-hai. They were the true enemy and he needed to get through them to reach the Dark Lord. Sauron, unlike the King of Men, would not stand at the front of his army. He would lurk at the back, hoping to avoid combat. That was where Aragorn was aiming for and he was determined that nothing would halt his progress.

The first Orcs he took down quickly, propelled forward by the rush of adrenaline of the initial attack. But the Uruk-hai were intermingled with their lesser brothers and it wasn't long before Aragorn met a line of them. He didn't mind though. One step closer.

It didn't seem that the Uruks knew who he was. Foolish, Aragorn thought. They would be praised greatly for taking down the king had they known. He beheaded two in a row, ignoring the splattering of thick blood he received for his troubles, and barrelled into another rank waiting for him. He was still ahead of the rest of his people, enveloped within the army of Shadow, their efforts keeping the Enemy distracted from his back. He impaled another Uruk and ducked as one sought to return the favour. Whilst down low, Aragorn took the legs out from under another two, quite literally. A downed Uruk was just as good as a dead one in battle; so Legolas had taught him.

All around him, the Shadow writhed and slithered, already slick with the blood of their comrades. Sauron's army was like a giant, terrible living beast threatening to swallow him up and digest him in its evil. He fought with all his might. He would not be beaten or bested by these monsters. Creatures that he had never seen before, horrific monstrosities that didn't bear close consideration, came at him as he forced his way through the ranks, determined to stay ahead of the rest of his own army and gain ground. The banners of the King were far behind him now, stubbornly flapping in the breeze, but he didn't care. The gold band in his pocket would be just as an effective herald for Sauron of his approach.

The things he saw in the semi-light of the torches, the horrors undreamed of even in the worst nightmares, turned Aragorn's stomach. There were Orcs, Goblins and Uruks, all of which he had faced before. But there were other creatures too. Men some of them may have been once. But mutilated beyond all recognition and filled with passionate rage. It was as though Sauron had been experimenting in the dark depths of Mordor and these distorted creatures were the product of that experimentation. More troublingly, Aragorn was sure that a couple of times, he spotted Elf creatures amongst the writhing mass of monsters. He recognised the vague light in their eyes, as he had seen in Legolas in his final hours on this earth. This perhaps hurt him the most, for it reminded him of the Dark Lord's intolerable cruelty and the taking of his own guardian, the closest thing to a father he could claim to have, who had been snatched from him by this evil Shadow.

Orcs and the like, Aragorn was satisfied to strike and leave on the ground to perish in agony. He cared not one bit for them. But the Men and Elves, already stripped down and forced into something so grotesque and against their nature, he made sure to kill outright. Clean deaths, painless if possible; beheading mostly. It was more merciful. He knew them to be too far gone to be brought back from the Shadow. They were all beyond salvation now. The only mercy he could give them was a quick and painless death.

Nothing stopped his progress entirely though. Or at least nothing stopped his attempts at progress. Most of the time, he felt like he was fighting a losing battle. Every time one Orc fell another immediately replaced it. His arms ached with the strain of wielding his sword constantly in the same motions and in such confined space. Each step he took forward, he was forced back two paces. It was infuriating and it was only his focus on making progress through the army that kept him fighting without despair.

However, when he found himself pushed back so far that he was surrounded by his own army again, he let out a roar above the noise of the battle and struck out even more viciously at the approaching Orcs attempting to cut him down.

There was no time to assess how they were doing on whole, nor how his people were faring, although he saw plenty of the bodies of his comrades lying on the ground amongst the plentiful corpses of the Enemy. He was not given an opportunity though to ponder upon this though.

"Aragorn!" a shout of warning reached his ears and he looked around, startled both to find Eomer standing near him and also that the sky had brightened enough to be able to see the man. Grey dawn was upon them already. Surely that was impossible. It seemed only a couple of hours before that he had called the charge at night. "Aragorn, look out!" Eomer's voice pulled him from his idle musings and he turned in the direction that Eomer pointed to see the threat bearing down on him.

Never had he seen such a beast. It stood almost as tall as one of the Mumakil they had met on Pelennor Fields but it was no brainless beast of burden. Shaped almost like a man, it was huge, grey in colour and pounding through the Shadow's forces towards him, stampeding over anything unfortunate enough to be in its way. It swung a huge mace back and forth, taking out far more of the Enemy than anything else. Walking before it were at least twenty Uruk-hai, each holding a chain as if guiding it through the field of battle to be unleashed upon its target.

Eomer reached Aragorn, knocking an Orc on the head as it tried to chew on his neck, and grabbed the king's shoulders.

"What is it?" shouted Aragorn over the screams of terror at the approaching devilry.

"A Troll?" shouted back Eomer. Such things had been spoken of around the fire during his childhood in Rohan but he had never actually seen one. And he wished he never had to again. It was truly a fearsome sight to behold. "Deadly, Aragorn!"

It was true. The thing was massive enough to take out dozens at a time and even more deadly with the club-like weapon in its hand. It could not be allowed to reach the bulk of his army. It would devastate them. And there was more than one. Coming forward from the back of the Shadow's army were dozens of trolls, roaring and stampeding their way through the Orc ranks, spread out so as to cause the most possible damage.

Looking behind him, confident that Eomer would guard him from harm for a moment whilst his attention was lapsed from the battle, Aragorn shouted as loud as he could manage to the nearest spearmen and swordsmen.

"Bring it down!" he bellowed above the roar of battle, gesturing wildly at the great beast approaching him. "Kill it!"

His command was heeded immediately. The spearmen signalled to the swordsmen, who efficiently surrounded them in a protective ring, keeping the Orcs and Uruk-hai at bay while they worked to bring down the Troll. They threw their spears high up in the air, aiming carefully for the approaching creature because the weapons were few and far between and could not be wasted on poor shots. They were well trained, just as Aragorn had wished them to be and their spears hit true.

The great Troll recoiled at being struck by the long spears, as though it had not been anticipating resistance from its enemy. It plucked at one of the darts, that looked so small, piercing its thick grey hide and brought it close to its face to examine it, poking its great finger against the tip and staring in amazement at its own blood that stained the sharp tip. More projectiles hit it then and it recoiled again, looking equally as puzzled that the attack continued. Then, to Aragorn's amazement, it attempted to turn and run. But it could not flee the battle. It was held back by the Uruk-hai holding it. Aragorn saw the rings piercing its skin, attached to which were the chains. It was a prisoner. A clueless creature of war held by pain and suffering by the Shadow.

Sympathy was not an option though despite the agony the creature might have been enduring. It may have been innocent in some respects but it was still the enemy and it had to be killed before it killed the entire host of Men in its panic at being restrained and injured.

"Eomer, the Uruks!" he shouted to his companion and they both charged forward, aiming for the Troll's wranglers.

Eomer called others to him, pointing at the Uruk-hai holding the chains. The Men got the purpose of the renewed attack almost immediately and started hacking their way through the masses to reach the Uruk-hai wranglers. Aragorn ran ahead, shoving the Orcs blocking his progress aside without bothering to strike them down.

He saw his men reach the Uruks and immediately become surrounded by the other creatures in an attempt to stop them; the Enemy were not entirely stupid, they recognised what the armies of Light were doing and were being directed to prevent them achieving their goal. Aragorn couldn't do anything to help his men though. He was trapped in a battle of his own now. Eomer was stood beside him, fighting off any creature that dared attempt an attack on the king. Unfortunately though, they were surrounded and the Troll was becoming more and more agitated by the moment, tugging more violently at its chains and stumbling backwards and forwards, still stunned to be the centre of an attack it didn't understand. Projectiles continued to pelt it but they were not making enough of an impact to severely injure it and after a few more minutes, the leader of the soldiers called a halt to the attack, realising that they were having no effect and that it was just a waste of weaponry.

Aragorn couldn't blame him for that. It was the right decision and one that he would have made eventually anyway. Still now he knew it was only a matter of time before the Troll regained what few senses it had and went back on the attack. Then his people would be easy prey. It might not have been witty enough to attack with purpose but the creatures forcefully guiding it knew their target well and would not be put off so easily.

Finally, Aragorn reached the Uruk he had been aiming for and without preamble hacked its head off before it even realised what was happening. The chain went slack and the Troll lurched, surprised at the sudden lack of a tension. Another chain went slack then. Then another. His men were slowly taking out the Uruk-hai.

However, the Troll, now suddenly free, did not know what to do with itself. It floundered for a moment and then tugged at the few chains still binding it. Without the support of so many Uruk-hai though, they could not hold it and they backed away, loosening the chains as they did so and giving the creature free reign. The Troll stumbled again and then looked down to the mace still clasped in a massive, chunky hand. Aragorn wondered whether that too was attached in some wicked way. Either way, clearly it was not going to give the weapon up. It whipped it back, surprised at its new-found freedom, and then brought it down, not upon the Men yet but upon the Uruk-hai gathered close to it. It didn't care what it hit. Perhaps, Aragorn thought, it had no choice. All it knew how to do was kill with the cruel mace as it had been chained. Instinctively, it was bound to follow that programming.

Despite the Troll no longer being controlled by its wranglers, who had wisely backed away from the flailing creature, Aragorn knew that it was only a matter of time before it blundered into his army and ended up taking out more of them, whether through malice and panic. He had to stop it.

"Bring it down!" he yelled to his warriors but they had no idea how to go about that. How did one bring down such a beast? No one had ever faced anything like it. The Mumakil on Pelennor were not, after all, malicious killers.

Seeing their uncertainty, Aragorn ran as fast as he could towards the Troll, much to Eomer's shock. Upon seeing his approach though, the massive creature brought the mace down in an attempt to stop him but it was poorly aimed and crashed into the dirt a couple of feet from Aragorn, leaving behind it a small crater and a very startled king. Had he been beneath that, Aragorn knew he would have been killed immediately. However, he could not be deterred. Regaining his balance, he plunged onwards, aware that behind him ran Eomer, uncertain of what he was trying to do but loyal in his charge all the same.

Up close, the Troll was impossibly huge. But that had its advantages. He could get close to it without it being aware of his position. Thankfully, the creature also seemed extremely dim-witted, although Aragorn didn't know whether this was a trait shared by all of its kind or whether it was some torture devised by the Shadow. Upon losing sight of him as he skidded to a halt at its feet, it turned around on the spot, searching for him as though bemused that its prey had just disappeared into thin air. Aragorn almost smiled. It might have been physically impressive but he had found its flaw. He couldn't have asked for better under the circumstances.

As the Troll turned its head around searching pointlessly for the threat, Aragorn drew Legolas' white-handled knife from its sheath and, along with Anduril, stabbed a blade deep into each trunk of a leg. The Troll reacted immediately. It screeched, throwing its great head back and shouting at the sky. Anduril and the knife both slid out thick with black blood. Still though the beast remained standing, staggering this way and that in an attempt to keep its balance through the pain.

Unsatisfied with this result, Aragorn dropped to his knees and thrust the knife into the creature's exposed foot, not stopping until he felt hard ground at the tip. On his right, he heard Eomer do the same on the other foot. Essentially, they had pinned the Troll to the ground with their knives. It roared again and pulled at its feet. The daggers would never hold, Aragorn knew that, so he tugged his own dagger out and watched as Eomer followed suit.

"Get out of its way!" Aragorn yelled as the creature staggered even further. He thought back to Pelennor when the giant Mumakil had fallen and crushed soldiers as it fell. He did not want to be trapped beneath a giant Troll and he didn't want anyone else to meet the same fate either.

Scrabbling to his feet, he turned and ran, grabbing Eomer's arm and dragging him away as he did so. They ran as fast as they could manage. Fortunately, the Uruk-hai and Orcs had also seen what was about to happen and had backed away from the creature giving them some space to move without fear of immediate attack.

With no time to lose, Eomer and Aragorn plunged immediately back into the fray, taking out Orcs as they re-joined the main battle with cries.

Aragorn did not see the Troll fall but he heard the crash and thump as it hit the ground and felt the earth tremble slightly beneath his feet. The creature had fallen. He felt a small surge of pride swell in his chest. It might not be dead but it wasn't going to take out any of his men either. That was a small victory in this great battle at least. And all around him, he heard cries similar to his as leaders instructed their men on how to bring the fearsome creatures down.

The Troll might have fallen thanks to the diligence and determination of the King and Eomer, soon to be finished off by the gathered Men, but there were still plenty of agents of the Shadow to remove before the battle was anywhere near won.

**OIOI**

"Master?" The Uruk approached him cautiously. He knew his master was watching the battle unfold with interest and increasing irritation and that that would not improve his already dangerous mood. An Uruk might prove a decent target for the Dark Lord in his moment of frustration. All night they had been standing there on the edges of battle watching and waiting for the Men to be crippled. He could tell that his master was annoyed. It should not be taking this long. They should have beaten the Men back within a couple of hours at the very most. It was long past dawn already. And they had just watched the Trolls, one of their greatest weapons, go down amidst a sea of fighting Men.

Sauron's hands tightened into fists at his sides, his leather gloves creaking under the tension, and beneath his hood, his eyes narrowed. This was Aragorn's doing. He just knew it. The boy king was responsible for this humiliation.

"Master? Orders, sir?" prompted the Uruk uncertainly, bowing low in the hope the action might just spare him.

"Unleash the Wolves of Isengard. Let us see if the Wizard served me well."

Bowing lower still, the Uruk backed away uncertainly for the first four paces and then turned and ran to pass on the order to a herald. Moments later there came a terrible snarling as the Wargs of Isengard were unleashed upon the unsuspecting Men.

Sauron smiled thinly. Aragorn had not overcome him yet.

**OIOI**

Eomer knew the sound well. All the Rohirrim did. He heard it clearly even over the roar of battle. It chilled him and his men to the bone.

"The Wargs!" he yelled in warning just as a blur of matted brown fur and glinting white teeth flashed past him. His call was not fast enough for one unfortunate soldier, who found himself suddenly with a slice out of his midsection courtesy of the Warg-rider's scimitar. Eomer whipped around but it was too late to help. The man cried out in panic and pain, grasping at his middle. But there was no time to dwell on the terrible wound. Almost immediately he was set upon by the ravenous Warg and within a minute he was ripped to pieces simply for the joy of doing it.

"Aragorn! Wargs!" shouted Eomer again, hoping to alert as many people as possible before they met the same fate as the soldier.

Most of the Men had met these creatures in battle before. They knew how to kill them effectively but it was not easy. Eomer thought that he would have preferred another slow, dim Troll over these far more intelligent and dangerous creatures.

Snarling surrounded him then. There were at least forty of the vicious creatures coming from all sides of the battlefield, indiscriminately killing any Man or creature of the Shadow they came across. It didn't matter to them whether they took Rohirrim or Gondorian or Ranger. They seemed to have no preference and no orders other than to kill whatever they could.

"Spears!" Aragorn called, hoping to take at least a few of the beasts from a distance. However, by now the long weapons had dwindled to almost nothing. The men had attempted to retrieve any darts left behind, even if they had belonged to the Shadow at some point. It didn't matter where they came from only that they were sharp and flew true. One or two had even managed to scavenge bows and arrows off of the fallen Goblins. They were hardly the best of weapons and of poor quality but it didn't matter to the soldiers. Any weapon was good enough.

A few arrows flew past the soldiers and took down two Wargs and their riders but it wasn't enough. Men fell all around, pounced upon and dismembered by the awful Wolves.

"Eomer, kill them!" Aragorn yelled, hoping that Eomer would gather together the Rohirrim who were more adept at killing perhaps their worst foe; but the Rohirrim had become separated and scattered in the midst of battle and were no longer as one unit. He cursed to himself and turned in an attempt to find some warriors and bring them together again. They should not have become so terribly separated.

"Faramir!" He found the man not too far away from him – the first time he had seen him since the beginning of the battle. "To me!"

Immediately, his command was obeyed and Faramir, accompanied by his loyal lieutenant and a dozen other warriors, joined him, sword already prepared for the order he knew was about to be spoken.

"Take them down."

Within minutes, Faramir and his men had managed to get six of the beasts on the ground and rid them of their riders. They didn't bother with killing blows, so long as they were suitably disabled and could not harm anyone else. More soldiers came to them, realising the aim of the small group of warriors. They wanted the Wargs dead too before they killed more of their comrades.

"Come together! Kill them!" Aragorn encouraged as he slit the throat of another Orc who attempted to stop him.

The bulk of the Warg crashed into him before he even realised what was happening. He found himself face-down on the blood-soaked ground struggling to drawn in breath under the terrific weight of the foul creature. He found that he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything. The crushing pain was overwhelming and he squeezed his eyes shut as he fought for breath. He felt heavy paws, rough and wet, pressing down on his back, keeping him pinned to the ground and unable to lift his sword arm. The creature stank of death and decay and he flinched as he felt hot breath on his neck. It was sniffing him.

"Look to the king!" a desperate shout from an unknown voice went up and then he heard complete chaos erupt all about him.

The Warg holding him down shifted, as though checking about itself for danger or as if worried that someone was attempting to take its prey away from it. Aragorn used the slight shift above him to draw in a heaving breath of fetid air and made a half-hearted attempt to struggle free or at the very least regain his hold on his weapon. It was useless though and his attempt was thwarted when the Warg realised what was happening and pinned him tighter to the ground than before.

It growled possessively over him and sniffed his neck again. It could smell Human blood so close. Then it raised its head, ready to sink its jaws in.

"Aragorn!"

Then just as suddenly as it had come, the weight above him was gone and he gasped gratefully for air, rolling onto his side and bringing up his arms to cradle his bruised, aching ribs. His vision was slightly blurred but he saw that two Men were currently slaughtering the beast and its rider that had attacked him. Two swords were plunged into the creature's heart and the Orc was beheaded for its troubles.

"Are you all right?" Faramir demanded above the noise, crouching next to him.

Aragorn nodded breathlessly, not having enough air in his lungs just yet for a verbal response. Perhaps he would have been better off telling Faramir 'no' as the Man nodded back and gripped the King's arm and hauled him up to his feet.

Patting the man's arm encouragingly, Faramir ensured he was steady before bending to retrieve Anduril from the ground where it had fallen.

After a quick self-assessment, Aragorn determined that he was not seriously hurt and took Anduril back from the Gondorian man.

"Thank you," he gasped, clutching his chest with his free hand.

"You're welcome. Come on. There is more yet to do."

Aragorn found himself being pulled along back into the heart of the fray. He was given no time to recover but that didn't matter. He was hardly going to rest up whilst his men were fighting to remain in control of the Orc legions.

**OIOI**

"Master." This time it was one of the Wraiths who spoke.

"What?"

"Is it time?" hissed the voice, tinged with rare impatience.

Sauron sighed beneath his hood. They were eager to join the battle. Understandably so. They wanted revenge for the loss of their brother. But Sauron would not set foot on the battlefield until he was certain that he had the advantage and he could not yet be sure of that. There was no point in risking his life for their need for vengeance. And he would not let them go ahead of him. He needed them. He knew that Aragorn would try to come for him. If, by some miracle, the young king did succeed, he wanted the Wraiths near to protect him.

"Not yet. Be patient. Your time will come."

The Wraith stepped back into formation around the Dark Lord without further comment or complaint. It was not the place of the Nazgul to dictate the way this battle progressed. They were servants and nothing more. They knew their place in the scheme of things and they would obey despite their desire to spill Human blood.

"Soon," the Dark Lord assured to assuage them. "Soon your time will come. And you will be avenged."

**OIOI**

"Tell me, please, does he live?"

"I don't know. Please, I have no time for this."

"You must have seen something. Does the King live? What of Eomer?"

The soldier halted abruptly in his impatience and turned to Eowyn with a stern look. "My Lady, I just don't know." His face softened beneath its mask of dirt and dried blood upon seeing the pain written on her face. "I am sorry. I'm sure that someone will be able to tell you something soon." He walked away then without another word, returning to the battle.

Eowyn turned and looked back at the camp. She had been left behind, just as she had expected to be. Of course Eomer would not allow her to actually go into battle and Aragorn would never have overruled him in that order. He had tried to placate her, of course, told her that she was to be left in charge of the healers whilst the commanders were locked in battle with the army of Shadow. It was a ridiculous assignment, she knew. But many of the women deemed unable to fight for whatever reason but who had wanted to help the soldiers had been offered the same assignment and she knew that despite her irritation at it, it was an important duty that might well be vital to the war effort and defeating the Dark Lord.

"My Lady, we need more help."

The camp was busy. Everywhere patients lay on the ground. Some were silent in their agony, whilst some screamed. Others impatiently harassed the healers, begging to be let back out onto the field even though their wounds were severe enough to prevent them from joining their comrades. Those in that last group were never in the camp for long. The healers would not hold them back if they wished to return. Many soldiers were needed out on the field of battle and the healers and physicians were stretched almost beyond their limits.

Eowyn led another soldier away towards the camp, searching for a free space. Women were dragging bodies away all the time, clearing space for the newcomers. She lowered her burden to the ground and looked about for a healer. She feared though that there was little to be done. This one was silent. That usually meant that no help could be given. She had learned that during her short time. The screamers were usually left until there was a lull, for a physician told her that if they had the energy to scream then they would live a little longer.

Occasionally, she would look at the mutilated soldiers who stumbled into the camp, sometimes alone, sometimes aided by hasty comrades, and thanked the heavens that Eomer had ordered her stay behind. She hated herself for thinking thusly though because her brother, her friends, were out there, just a split second of bad luck away from meeting the same fate.

True to her suspicions, the soldier she was helping passed away just a few minutes after being laid down. There was nothing she could do for him now, this she knew, but she lingered at his side all the same. So many she had seen meet their end here on the edge of the battlefield and mostly she had seen them from a distance dying alone and in agony, far away from friends or family and it evoked such great pity in her heart. She knew how it felt to be alone in misery waiting for the end to come. She had felt enough of that during her time in Helm's Deep. She had been liberated in the end by Legolas and now she wished she could bring to others the comfort he had brought to her. It was a small thing, an unnecessary thing, to linger with the body after death, but it brought her some comfort.

Taking the limp hand of the deceased soldier, she closed her eyes and thought briefly upon his life although she knew nothing specific about it. She wished him peace and thanked him for his contribution to their freedom.

Finally, she let go of his hand and it dropped lifelessly to his side coming to rest upon his sheath. The sword lay still inside the leather, waiting for its owner to take it up again. Eowyn lowered her hand to the handle of the weapon, feeling the fine leather. It was well looked after. Perhaps a family heirloom that had survived all the troubles. She pulled at it, testing its weight and quality. She was not well practiced in such weapons, although she had been given lessons at her request alongside the other young men and women who had wanted to fight alongside the warriors. But nevertheless, it seemed like a good weapon to her.

Casting a glance around herself, she checked that no one was watching but they were all too busy with their individual tasks to take any notice of her. Then, she pulled the sword entirely free of the man's sheath. It was impressive, a good work of art, she thought, but deadly at the same time. She tested it in her grip. It wasn't as heavy as she had thought it might be. In fact, it suited her quite well.

Getting to her feet, she moved the sword about a little, getting used to the weight and balance.

Her mind had been made up for a long time, ever since Eomer had ordered her stay where it was relatively safe, behind the battle lines. Never had she been one to rebel. She had spent a good part of her life under the control of others and that institutionalisation had been deeply ingrained into her mind. It felt wrong to go against orders, to go out on her own. And yet, standing there with a stolen sword, every advantage for following her heart presented before her, she knew that it was right.

No one paid her any attention as she slipped away with the man's cloak, sword and dagger. Wrapping the cloak tightly around her, she hurried away, following the path she had seen many men walking up seeking help from the healers left in camp. No one halted her. People going back into battle were not paid any heed, in fact they were more often than not treated as returning heroes, having survived the healing camp and then willingly returning to battle.

As she had suspected, it was chaos in the field of combat. As she neared, the noise nearly overwhelmed her and she almost turned back, thinking this a foolish escapade and her courage failing her at the last. But she found herself at first drawn by the thrill of battle pulsing through her veins and then swept up amongst Human warriors surging back towards the battle and unable to turn back. She was shoved and pushed down the incline and into the pit of battle.

Her first Orc kill was clearly a straggler. It rushed at her and she merely had to raise her arm to let the frenzied Orc run into her sword. It dropped dead and she felt a thrill of excitement at having killed one of the Shadow and terrible fear at what might have just happened to her had she not been so fortunate. There was no time, she knew, to rest or wallow in her terror. She was pushed onwards and found herself deeper than ever in the throes of war.

Not one person recognised her and she could recognise none of them. She simply fought to stay alive, knowing that her choice had been made and she now had to follow through with it. There was no going back She prayed that she would not meet her brother on the field. He would not fail to recognise her and would be furious with her for her betrayal of his orders. Or perhaps he would be proud. Either way, she did not want to have to confront him.

Surprisingly, she found herself doing rather well. Better than she thought she would. Orcs, it turned out, were fairly easy to kill. Mostly they simply walked head-long into their deaths and they wore no kind of armour and so died quickly and easily upon being impaled. She worked alone, as most Men did, fighting off anything that came close enough to strike. Her arm ached and her eyes watered from the smoke and stench of blood. But it felt right. Her fellow women had taken to the field and it felt a shame to be left behind to tend the dying.

Her initial confidence was shattered soon after when the terrible sound that struck terror into the hearts of all Men resounded across the entire battlefield. They had all heard it before and they all fought to keep from dropping their weapons to cover their ears.

She lost the battle and dropped her sword and threw up her hands to banish the terrible sound. Clenching her eyes shut, she cried out loud as the pain of the sound ripped through her.

The Nazgul had joined the battle.

**To Be Continued…**


	80. The War Of Light And Shadow Part II

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 80 **

**The War of Light and Shadow – Part Two**

"Yes," Sauron hissed darkly to himself, milky blue eyes narrowing beneath the shade of his hood. A smile split his dry lips and he tasted blood on his tongue at the unfamiliar action. From his vantage point, he could see that although his forces had been significantly depleted by the army of Men, they were still holding fast. Many Humans had died on the field of battle that day and many more would die before the end, he knew. It brought him joy of a kind to witness them falling to pieces, albeit slowly. His own army was holding true and strong, just as he had wished it would do. His Orcs and other allies would not quail under the threat of mere Humans. Aragorn was foolish to ever think they would. This was not the Battle of Helm's Deep, where a hunk of ancient stone was the only prize. This was the end game. All rested upon the outcome of this final great battle. The fate of Middle Earth was at stake.

Sauron could almost taste his victory at hand. He breathed deep, ignoring the rattling of his tortured lungs and the pain that billowed in his thin chest. He wanted to smell the wondrous scent of bloody, vicious battle. He had missed it so during his years in confinement.

Every blow the Men took, he smiled wider still, uncaring of the pain the action caused to his face. He wanted to revel in this success. He watched the banners so brazenly carried into battle as though Aragorn expected to plant them in the ground as markers of gained territory, fall along with their bearers, flutter to the ground to be trampled in the bloodied earth. He listened to the exquisite cries of pain and death all around him. Mostly Men, he imagined. His own creations would not scream in such a way. They would be honoured to die for him and his cause.

The brutality of the battle did not lessen or heighten his enjoyment of watching it. He did not care for the blood or the destructions wrought by swords and spears – even though he would not deny himself the entertainment of watching such atrocities – he only cared for the outcome and he was more certain than ever that he would be victorious now.

He told himself that he had never doubted his power but at the back of his mind, he could not deny that some doubt had for a time lingered. Aragorn had always surprised him in his actions, they were so very unpredictable. But there was to be no surprise this time. Aragorn was doing what every other battling commander would do. There was nothing cunning about this fight. That, Sauron mused as he watched another black and silver banner flutter to the blood-soaked ground, would be his downfall. How could the king have become so sloppy so suddenly? Of course, he already knew the answer. The Elf.

How he had rejoiced when reports had come to him after the battle on Pelennor Fields at Gondor of the death of the King's beloved guardian. He had always maintained that he cared not for the Elf aiding Aragorn in his quest to take the throne of Gondor and lead Men to victory over him but the truth was that he had been worried. He knew well the strength of the Elven race, he had witnessed it himself and he knew that the son of Thranduil could have posed a problem for him. But now he was gone, cut down by the Shadow he despised so much.

True, the Shadow had paid a terrible price for the death of the exiled Elf-prince. In that fight Sauron had lost one of the Nine, had broken that ancient kinship apart and they detested him, he believed, on some level for that betrayal despite the victory it may yet facilitate. And yet despite their raw grief, his heart had soared when he had heard the news. Aragorn was truly on his own now. The men he surrounded himself with were nothing compared to the Elf who had got the king this far and he did not fear them at all. In fact, he revelled in the fact that now Aragorn was being advised by those from Human lands. They would pose him no problem he knew. He had bested them many times before and despite their new alliance they were still weak.

They must have known this too. The Humans feared him. From the way they fought - with desperation rather than conviction - he knew this. His own Orcs fought the same way but they had been trained to do thusly.

"My Lord?" His Human Easterling messenger, whom he had chosen along with several others before the battle began to be his herald, approached again in a grovelling bow and Sauron tipped his head down distastefully to observe the snivelling creature and give him leave to speak. "News from the battle, my Lord. Our Orc and Goblin forces are being rapidly depleted. There are but a few hundred left standing. The Humans are decimating them, sir."

"Yes," hissed Sauron. "Clever boy." He had to concede this. Aragorn was taking out the largest threat first. True, the Uruk-hai were more dangerous and better fighters by far but the Orcs and Goblins were more numerous. Getting rid of them evened the playing field somewhat. Perhaps, he thought, he should not have been so quick to dismiss the wiles of the Humans.

"And the Trolls…"

"Yes." He had seen this. It had been a blow when the Men had taken down the first Troll but he had thought it a lucky fluke, until he watched Aragorn organise his men to systematically rid the field of those monstrous beasts.

"What should we do?"

Sauron smiled behind his hood. What a question to ask! Only a Man would have done so. An Orc or Uruk, so blindly dedicated to following his every will without question or comment, would never have thought to question the wisdom of his initial plan as laid out to all those fighting for his cause.

There would be no retreat. "The only way is forward. Decimate them."

Dark eyes looked about, peering from a black mask, uncertain of this order. He knew that if they continued they would be cut down eventually by the Humans from Gondor. His master did not see what was happening below. He couldn't possibly know. And how could he, a mere messenger, tell the Lord of Shadow that he was wrong and that his actions to continue as they were going were foolish?

So, he bowed deeply and backed away, cautious of the ring of Wraiths surrounding the Dark Lord. "Thank you, my Lord." Then he rushed away to convey the command to the leaders who would in turn relay it to their troops.

Sauron breathed deeply again, liking the smell of smoke and blood on the air. It reminded him of old times, when he had walked the Earth freely and brought him hope for a time when he would do so again.

Unfortunately, for all his posturing, the truth was that the journey across the mountains from his home, where he had been ensconced for many long years, had taken its toll on his already tortured and weakened Elven host's body. He could feel the strain in the long limbs simply from standing for so long. Pain wracked him and although it didn't debilitate him it was a distraction, one that he could ill afford.

Thinking back, he now somewhat regretted killing the Wizard Saruman. Yes, it had given him great power for a time but that was already fading. He could ask no more from the Nazgul surrounding him for he needed them for protection above all else. No. Soon the battle would be over and the reign of Shadow would well and truly begin. Then it wouldn't matter. He would be all powerful and he would have his Precious back with him and he would be whole again. No more weakling Elven bodies to contend with; he would be pure again, as he should be.

Still, he was not powerful yet and he staggered backwards slightly.

"My Lord!" exclaimed his personal servant, rushing forward to steady his master.

"Get off me!" Sauron bellowed in horror. To have Orc hands holding him was demeaning and would not be endured for anything. He would rather fall to the ground and crawl on his knees. He bent over double, trying to regain his strength as the Orc cowered away in terror.

All around him, the Nazgul closed in to protect him. They could sense vulnerability and they could feel it within their master now. They would not touch him. They knew better.

"My Lord."

"What?" the Lord Sauron shouted in anger as the Easterling herald approached again.

"My Lord, the Uruk-hai are under heavy attack. The Men are…they are beating them back, sire."

This pushed all thoughts of pain to the back of Sauron's mind and he straightened again. "Impossible," he declared, for it was inconceivable that Aragorn was beating him. His own forces far outnumbered that of the Human's. Aragorn's army was weak and his was strong. He could not be losing.

"It is true, my Master. The Men have become organised once again. The King is leading them, pushing our forces further back and continuously gaining ground. They are slaughtering everything in their path."

For a brief moment, Sauron found himself floundering. What now? He had not predicted this. Not so soon. Of course, his forces would be decimated by the battle. Perhaps a few might survive. But one thing he had been certain of was that the Men would be exterminated completely. His eyes moved over the large black bulks of his Nazgul, still sentinels at his side, and then to the battlefield in front of him.

By now, all the banners of Men had fallen. They had given up on patriotism and settled for simply surviving. But he could see Aragorn, even with his blurry eyes. The dark-haired man wore all the colours of old Gondor, red cloak emblazoned with the White Tree and crown and stars. He battled proudly as though he had been doing so for many years. And he was determined. Sauron could see that even from a distance. It was set on his face. He had come this far and, just like the Dark Lord himself, was not going to go away the loser.

Sauron remembered years ago listening to his spies inform him of Aragorn's attack on Helm's Deep. He recalled at the time thinking Aragorn reckless but also bold. He had felt admiration. And he felt it again now in his heart – as much as he hated the emotion. How could he not admire such foolish bravery? It was this 'foolish bravery', however, that had always scuppered Sauron's well-laid plans. He could never anticipate what the Men were going to do next. He had always assumed that that daring had come from Legolas. But perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps it had been Aragorn all along. Or maybe he had just learned much from his long-time mentor.

Either way, Aragorn was outwitting and out-fighting him. That would not do.

He looked to the battlefield again, eyes taking in the scene, calculating what to do next. Then his gaze was drawn to the patient dark shapes at his side. Another smile cracked his lips then and he licked away another warm sliver of blood.

Drawing himself up to his full height, he steeled himself for what he knew all along would happen.

"I shall deal with this myself."

Even the Nazgul were surprised. They didn't show it but he could feel it from them. None could have anticipated such a decision. Sauron had chosen to ride into battle but none of them imagined that he meant to actually join in with the fighting at any point. That was what an army, expendable, was for. A thrill of excitement rippled through those gathered. Their master was going to fight. By many, it had never been seen before.

"We go into battle," the Dark Lord then told his most faithful servants, now numbering only eight.

They were pleased. Finally, they would get the revenge they craved for the loss of their patriarch. Long had they lusted after it. Of course, their first duty was to their master and not themselves. But they would at least be given the opportunity to try.

Sauron's war horse was brought forward. It was a trial just to mount the monstrous beast. It stood taller than any of the Nazgul steeds and looked even more dreadful and his body was severely weakened. He possessed none of the superior balance or strength of his Elven host. All of that had gone when he had shoved aside the soul of the Elf he possessed and planted himself with dark magic inside the body. He was boosted up onto the great war horse by his servant.

Around him, the Nazgul also mounted their black horses. They were nimble and quick and within moments were ready to go.

Sauron felt no fear about riding into battle himself. He would not lower himself to feel anxiety about riding out to meet Aragorn. The boy would not know what hit him when he met the Dark Lord Sauron himself in battle.

**OIOI**

With every small advance, the Men gained further confidence that they might actually come out of this alive. Exhaustion was pushed aside for they knew that the end was coming and they were more confident than ever that it would fall in their favour. So many had died already and they keenly felt the losses of their comrades. But they would not dwell on it, would not be brought down by it. They would make each sacrifice count towards the ultimate victory because it was all they could do now.

Every Orc exterminated was one less to blight the world and it brought them comfort and renewed strength to think in that manner.

The King was pushing them ever onwards, standing at the front of the line, bold and impeccably composed despite the fact that he was as filthy and ragged with exhaustion as any soldier on the field. They did not begrudge him this truth though. In fact, they admired him all the more for his stamina. The Gondorian contingent thought how different already this rule was from that of the Steward that had preceded the King. Denethor would never have deigned walk among his people as an equal, let alone ride into battle as one of them. For that was how they viewed Aragorn now: Equal.

Yes, he stood brighter than all the others. Every eye on the field was trained on him at some point. They looked to him for guidance more even than they did their own individual trusted commanders. Even compared to the brightly bedecked Jecha, they thought Aragorn shone brightly on the field of darkness, a beacon for them to look to whenever their confidence was shaken.

They surged forward, killing everything of the Shadow in their way. Their lord had a plan; he wanted the Dark Lord himself to fall this day. They would do everything they could, thanks to their newly discovered loyalty, to make this possible and to bring about the peace they all so desperately craved.

**OIOI**

"Do not be absurd; you cannot possibly leave."

"Watch me."

Faramir shoved away the fussing healer who was trying her very best to keep him pinned to the ground where he lay.

"It is just a scratch. One of my men overreacted."

"Overreacted? He had to practically carry you here."

"He did no such thing!"

"You will stay until I have looked you over and bound that leg, Lord Faramir."

"I am needed."

"You are needed whole. A warrior limping about is next to useless. It will not take long and then you may return."

Faramir sighed and ceased fighting with the determined woman. It was proving useless and it was only using up valuable energy. Not that he was wanting for energy right then. His whole body pounded with the thrill of battle, adrenalin coursing through his veins and making him restless and twitchy to return to the fight. He wanted to join his soldiers in battle, wanted to continue to face the Enemy head on and without mercy as he had been doing now for two days straight. He fidgeted restlessly as he laid on the ground awaiting the healer's inspection of his wound.

It was his own fault, he determined, that he was in this position. He had been reckless and had been punished for his inattention with a Goblin arrow to the leg. He had ripped it out and just about had the forethought to check that there was no poison present before he had angrily cast it aside and went on the attack, searching for the beast who had shot him. Unfortunately before he could deliver justice, he had run into one of his fellow Gondorians who, having noticed blood pouring down his leg, had insisted that he be taken to the camp and see a healer. He had gone because he had been given no choice.

"You see, sir, it'll only take a few minutes."

"It'll go faster if you stop chatting," grumbled the man.

The woman shot him an irritated look suggesting that she also had better things to be doing right then but had been stuck with this duty.

"Faramir! Faramir!"

Sitting up so suddenly that he nearly knocked the healer to the ground, Faramir turned towards the urgent cry. "What?"

"He's coming!"

"Who?"

"The Dark Lord himself! You have to come. Now!"

Shoving aside the stunned and terrified healer, all thoughts of getting patched up fading along with the aching pain stretching down his leg, Faramir ran after the messenger sent to fetch him. As he raced down the hill, taking the time to aid his companions in slaughtering the occasional Orc that managed to slip past the first defences and attempt to get at the camp where the healers worked tirelessly, Faramir spied what all the furore was about.

Like a dark cloud Sauron descended the hill on the opposite side of the battlefield, surrounded by what were unmistakably the Nazgul. He momentarily faltered. How could he not have predicted this? Aragorn had spoken of luring the Dark Lord and his army from his lands and they had all sensed Sauron's presence nearby as they waited for the assault. But Faramir had never thought that the Dark Lord would take to the battlefield.

He plunged into battle, pushing his way past Orc and Man alike in attempt to reach the front. He knew that this was where Aragorn would be and he wanted to be at the King's side when he faced his nightmare in person for the first time.

**OIOI**

Aragorn knew what was coming. It felt almost like an approaching storm, malevolent and terrible and almost tangible in the air. The Uruk-hai and Orcs that remained standing knew what was coming as well. They fought more ferociously at the coming of their master, as though on some level trying to impress and protect their dark creator or prove themselves loyal to the Shadow. And then, as if the instruction had been called, although no command came over the battlefield, they parted, letting through the first of the Wraiths. Aragorn watched the beasts in horror for he had met them before and knew their power all too well. All around them, everything went still. The Uruk-hai backed off, pressing back the Men although no longer with brutal malice but rather wanting to clear the way for their master and his terrible dark guardsmen. The Men too backed away fearfully, trembling at the horror that had come amongst them.

This confrontation was for Aragorn, none other. No one would be allowed to interfere in what was to follow.

Sauron came confidently forth on his steed, his face cast into shadow by his black hood, still Aragorn instinctively knew that he was smirking. He was not afraid. Safe within his bubble of protection, he did not yet fear the King of Gondor. Aragorn feared him though. His heart raced and he broke out in a cold sweat. All that he had done had been leading up to this very moment. Now that it was here, he was afraid. He would not let it show though. Sauron would not know the doubt that plagued his heart.

In a dark leather-gloved hand, Sauron carried a great broadsword. Aragorn had never seen anything like it. He had always considered the fearsome swords of the Nazgul to be Evil ingrained into metal but this was something else entirely. It practically dripped with dark magic; just as Anduril sang with the magic of the Elves. The blade itself was almost black in colour, as though evil had tainted the very metal it had been crafted from. Down half its length were engraved elaborate verses of script that Aragorn could not read but which he presumed were of the Black Speech of Mordor. Near the hilt was etched a detailed image of a wolf's head, making the whole thing look even more fearsome, as if it needed such extra detailing to strike fear into the hearts of its foes. The handle was wrapped in black leather and the pommel decorated with yet another wolf's head created from steel. Its eyes held sizeable rubies that shone blood red.

It was a truly terrible piece of weaponry to behold.

But Aragorn held Anduril and felt its Light power thrumming as strong as ever. These two swords had met in combat before and he could feel the tension, if such a thing were possible, between Light and Dark. Anduril pulsed in eagerness and Aragorn felt the same beat in his own heart.

Sauron himself was physically not what Aragorn had been expecting. Never had they met before, although both felt they knew each other well, such had been their vague but poignant encounters in the past. He was small upon his horse, withered almost, although he was clearly trying to appear bigger. Not that it mattered. He was intimidating enough surrounded by the terrible Nazgul. They made up for any bodily shortcomings the Dark Lord may have had.

Everyone around them backed away further. As they did so, small fights started breaking out again between Man and Uruk. In a matter of moments, the battle was raging around them again. The Nazgul ignored it completely; they, like their master, wanted nothing more than the king. He had eluded them long enough. Sauron, also, seemed unbothered by the fighting around him.

So confident was he that he was safe, he dismounted his great horse so that he and Aragorn were level. It was a risk to be seen as a mere mortal but he wanted to relish every moment of this long-awaited conversation.

"Here we are at last, Aragorn" the Dark Lord started as his Wraiths dismounted alongside him and unsheathed their swords. "I feel this has been a long time coming."

"For me too." Aragorn's hands gripped his sword so tight that they ached.

"You have suffered great losses here already."

"As have you."

Sauron inclined his head slightly. "True. Terms?"

"Excuse me?"

"Terms for surrender. In civilised warfare you would plead for the lives of your soldiers."

"Civilised warfare? Is that what this is?"

Sauron extended his free hand. "Of course. So, terms."

Aragorn frowned again and shook his head as though he didn't understand.

At this, Sauron laughed, a terrible, croaky sound that sounded breathless. "Ah, so uneducated," he taunted, knowing the effect it would have. "What heathen raised you into kinghood?" Sauron smiled again as Aragorn's posture tightened and his hands clenched tighter still around the handle of his sword in anger. "Ah yes. The coward Prince of the Woodland Realm. Legolas Thranduilion."

"Don't you dare speak his name!" spat Aragorn angrily.

"Was he really so lax in his tutelage? That, I suppose, is what comes from looking to uncouth immortals for guidance."

"Shut up!"

"So low, your anger. Not kingly at all. But then you are not a king, are you? Not really. You're just a boy pretending."

"I said shut up!"

Anger flared in Sauron's mind at this and he stepped forward. "You think you can command me, boy?! A weak bloodline raised by a weakling in turn. What threat do you think you can pose me, child?"

Regaining his composure, Aragorn said, "A significant one, it seems. You have wasted much time chasing me, so I hear."

"All for this moment," sighed Sauron almost in pleasure. "I have waited long for this moment, Aragorn. You have no idea."

"I feel the same way. Ever since I first learned of you and your tyranny, I have awaited this confrontation."

Beneath his hood, Sauron smiled again. "Then this is what it comes down to. We have both waited for so long; it seems a shame to waste this opportunity with talking."

Aragorn's eyes roamed over to the patiently waiting Nazgul and he asked, "Must they stand between us or will you face me equally."

"Never will you be equal to me, child. But, given your need for fairness, they will not intervene."

Sauron was confident of his victory, Aragorn realised with a shudder. It disconcerted him a little. Perhaps, despite his initial belief, he would be better off fighting the Nazgul than the Dark Lord himself.

Nevertheless, Aragorn held Anduril in a slightly looser grip, not wanting to take away from his skill with strength alone. He would need both, he thought, to win this fight, if such a thing were indeed possible. Sauron, meanwhile, motioned with his hand to the Wraiths around him. They all obediently stood back, although their swords remained within their grasps and Aragorn knew than that despite his word Sauron would summon them into battle if things looked like they were turning against him.

All about them, the battle thundered on. Few were distracted by the confrontation going on amongst them, although they were all aware of it. It would have been impossible not to be. Standing like sentinels, the Nazgul surrounded them, keeping the fight contained.

"Ah, I will savour this moment, Aragorn," said Sauron almost wistfully as they came closer together. "I would hope you do too. When I win, you will be dead but you will have fought with honour. I respect that."

Aragorn made no reply. What could he say? He did not require or want the Dark Lord's approval. In fact, the very notion sickened him. So he concentrated instead on preparing himself for battle. Everything he had learned from both his Elven guardian and from his Human companions he dredged up now, desperately trying to judge what move he should start with and whether Sauron would anticipate him.

The first blow was delivered by Aragorn. Raising Anduril high, he slammed into the dark sword without preamble or mercy. It was an opening gambit. He knew he would inflict no harm upon the Dark Lord. He did, however, surprise him and that counted for something.

Sauron stumbled backwards, shocked by the heavy impact. He had not been expecting it so soon.

"Uncivilised," he spat in disgust as he struggled to regain his balance within his crumbling host. Last time he had been in battle, he had been far stronger. He was not used to such a stark display of his own weakness. His eyes lighted then upon Aragorn's sword and he smiled beneath the cloak of his hood. "Narsil," he growled. That sword was unforgettable and unmistakeable. "We meet again on the field of battle."

"Anduril," corrected Aragorn showing off the blade re-forged before the Dark Lord.

"A new name; but broken once before and destined to be so again."

"You think so? Why then are you afraid?"

Anger surged with the dark heart of the Lord of Arda and he rushed forward and slammed his own sword against Anduril in an attempt to knock it from the hand of its new owner.

It was not what Aragorn expected. Sauron was weak, that much had become obvious to him with his opening blow. But this was no weak blow delivered. It made him stagger backwards it was so powerful. His hands shook with the strength of the blow. He parried the next two hits, surprised still by the power behind them. He could feel it reverberate through his body with each and every hit. It came, he was certain, from the sword rather than from the Dark Lord himself. His only hope was that with each clash, Sauron could feel the power of Anduril just as acutely.

Two great and powerful leaders and their swords were soon deeply engaged in their own battle, cut off by the Nazgul from the others from their respective armies. Sauron might have been physically weaker, Aragorn realised, but they were evenly matched. In truth, he had expected nothing less. He was prepared for this even when he had summoned the Dark Lord to him through the Palantir.

It was monumentally tiring. Each blow from Sauron's dark-bladed sword sent reverberations all down his arms, dulling his senses and making his arms weaken until they tingled under the strain. He tried a few attacks of his own but found himself more often than not on the defence. Only his anger kept him going and gave him strength enough to carry on fighting. Sauron had taken away from him everything he had ever loved. First his mother, then his father and finally Legolas, his most beloved mentor and guardian. He hated Sauron. Pure, burning hatred that ran deep within his heart and could not be dampened by force of will alone. Never had he imagined himself capable of such terrible hatred and it frightened him just a little. Legolas would not have approved of such a strategy but he used that fire within himself to give him strength, to fight the abomination that threatened what remained of the Free Peoples. He found, the more he fought to get a good strike in and make an impact in this fight, that he wanted Sauron to suffer, wanted to gaze upon his dead body before the end of the night. The desire consumed him. Tears fogged his eyes as he thought upon his guardian, of what this foul creature had taken from him. Legolas would tell him not to give up, to keep fighting to whatever end and so he would. Even if it meant dying because of it. He was more determined than ever to rid the earth of this great and terrible evil.

One lucky blow finally got the better of Aragorn and he stumbled backwards, almost losing his footing and crashing into one of the sombre guards positioned around them. Breathing heavily and sweating with the effort of simply keeping from being struck down, Aragorn distanced himself a little from the Dark Lord and eyed up the robed enemy once more.

Sauron laughed at his momentary retreat and lowered his sword slightly. "You see. For all your confidence, child, you are still weak. You always will be. You cannot win this fight so why trouble yourself?"

Straightening himself out, Aragorn held Anduril in both hands again before him. At least the sword did not tire. Determination soared within him again and he flew forwards, slamming into Sauron and narrowly missing a blow to the tall body before him. His miscalculation cost him and Legolas' frequent lectures about not attacking in anger flashed through his mind as if to torment him. Using the momentum of his attack and his newly found strength, Sauron finally knocked him fully to the ground.

Laughing darkly again, Sauron stepped closer to him. Looking down at the man crouched on all fours on the ground, unable to recover himself as he might have hoped, Sauron frowned in disappointment. "I was hoping for better from you." He knew that the young man was failing, that he had little strength left. He let his sword hand drop to his side, confident that Aragorn posed no immediate threat to him on the ground. "You disappoint me, _King of Gondor_. What would your guardian say?" He laughed, pausing to kick Aragorn to the ground when the man raised his head to glare in anger at the comment.

Truth was, the fight was taking it out of him too. This body, already failing drastically, was simply not strong enough for battle and was suffering from the exertion the Dark Lord was putting it under. He stretched his stiff neck and blinked his eyes to try to clear away the blurriness. He was sweating, he realised in revulsion. How he hated these bodies! He didn't know how mortals could stand them.

Raising his hand, he flipped back the large hood swathing his face.

Aragorn's reaction was instant. A gasp flew from his lips at the sight of Sauron bared to the flickering orange of torchlight.

It was not the terrible damage done to the face. Not the pale, almost translucent skin mottled with dark purple and red veins and sporting many scratches and sores. It was not the thin lips, dried and cracked and caked with dried blood from where they had split time and again. Not the thin blonde hair cropped short to the scratched scalp. Nor was it the milky eyes that had once clearly been vibrant blue in colour.

Rather, it was all this together and the likeness to one he loved dearly that stole the breath from Aragorn's lungs and froze the blood in his veins.

The visage of the Elf before him was so terrible that it sent Aragorn's head reeling and nausea rose in his throat. He had never set eyes on the face of the Dark Lord before. He did not know what he had expected to find. Perhaps he had thought that he would be akin to the Nazgul; mere empty forms, shells. Shades. But this standing before him was undoubtedly once an Elf for it looked so much like Legolas that Aragorn could almost have believed that the Elven prince was stood before him and not resting within the white marble crypts of Minas Tirith.

Finally lowering his eyes from the clouded heavens and seeing Aragorn's look of shock and revulsion, Sauron smiled sickeningly. "Yes," he hissed almost in pleasure. "Yes. This-My vessel."

Aragorn's eyes were wide with horror as he stared, unable to look away no matter how desperately he wanted to.

"It is not what you think," assured the Dark Lord. "I have seen your guardian before. The resemblance is striking, is it not? Or at least it was before-" He trailed off, his own eyes raking down the thin body his spirit possessed. "How I would have loved to have seen his face upon my revealing of this. Legolas' own sire fighting his adopted son in battle. The poetry is indescribable. It fills me with joy."

"Legolas'…Father."

"It's terrible, I know. Coincidence, in truth, Aragorn. Of the remaining Elves within my captivity, my servants brought me this. I had not thought it would last so long. When I considered the great drama of it all, I longed for it to be so." He breathed a deep, rattling breath. "I needed a vessel, Aragorn; a strong vessel. How I would have loved to have your guardian. I would have loved for us to be one. It was my greatest regret that I did not command my servants to bring him to me when they had the chance. But, Thranduil, I suppose, will suffice." He ran his hand down the mutilated, gaunt face, long nails raking at the translucent skin and drawing scratches of blood.

It was too terrible to dwell upon and yet Aragorn could not tear his gaze away. For the first time, he was grateful beyond words that Legolas was not here to see this abomination. It would have broken him; as had been the Dark Lord's intent.

Legolas had spoken little of his father to his ward. After Lothlorien, he had shared nothing else of his past life in Mirkwood. But from that short conversation, Aragorn had inferred that he was a strong, proud being. This torture would have been unbearable.

"Is he…alive?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"How?"

"Magic. You have no notion, Aragorn, of how hard this is to maintain. I even had to align myself with the Wizard to ensure its continued survival. Humiliating. But I believe it to be worth it. I have tried Men before, you understand. Even Dwarves. But they were just not strong enough. No, even as their spirits fade, the Elves have extraordinary power within them. It is admirable. And a king, no less."

"He died. In Mirkwood. Legolas said he had died."

Sauron laughed then, a terrible sound that did not suit his body. "Kill such a great asset? What a notion!"

Aragorn climbed to his knees, still fighting sickness. It was too terrible to behold. This creature who had once been like Legolas had been, twisted beyond all recognition and violated in this most horrific way for the purpose of true Evil. It was depraved.

"But enough of this, Aragorn. It will not do. I came here to kill you. I must see it through, you understand. Besides, I have heard tell that you have something of great importance to me. I would like it back." He paused then and tilted his head in consideration. It looked too much like Legolas doing it and Aragorn wondered whether he was using it merely to mock him. "I propose a deal. Give me the Ring and I will let you live this day. You may run from this battle now and live out the rest of your days as you see fit."

"Never!"

"That is disappointing. What would your guardian say-?"

Suddenly, overcome with new fury, Aragorn launched himself with remarkable speed at Sauron, knocking him off his feet for the first time. "No!" he screamed as he tumbled to the ground with the Dark Lord. Beneath him, Sauron attempted to flip him but Aragorn was full of renewed anger and adrenaline. Pulling out Legolas' white knife, Aragorn held it before the face of the wretched creature. "Recognise this? Look at it well, for this is the blade that will kill you."

"Nazgul!" the Dark Lord shouted and suddenly Aragorn was grabbed from behind and wrenched to his feet. Anduril was torn from his grasp and Legolas' knife was thrown away from him. He was powerless to stop it.

"You liar! A fair fight?! You do not know a fair fight, creature of Evil!" Aragorn raged even as the cold Shadow of the Nazgul began to drain his strength with their simple touch. He was surrounded now by the horrific creatures. "Fight me honourably."

"Why would I do that? You have had your fun here. I will suffer no more."

The Nazgul parted before Aragorn to let their master through. He stood before the struggling young king for a moment and then reached a gloved hand into Aragorn's pocket.

Terror raced through Aragorn's heart. The Ring. He had found it.

"No!"

Every feature of the Dark Lord's face relaxed when his fingers curled around the small band of powerful gold. "At last. At last!" He gripped the Ring within his fist, holding it close to his chest above his heart. "No more," he muttered as if to the body containing him.

Several things happened all at once then and left Aragorn reeling. Firstly he felt a terrific blow from behind and then felt fire lapping at his back. Stunned, he instinctively dropped to the ground and peered up just in time to see seven of the remaining eight Nazgul being engulfed in raging flames. The squealed their unearthly cries and wheeled away, leaving only one, which was immediately pulled into battle by several Men.

Free, Aragorn looked up just in time to see Sauron sliding the Ring over his gloved finger, a look of sheer joy upon his face.

Anduril had fallen away from him and Aragorn threw himself forward to grab its handle. Curling his fingers about the fine leather, he forced up his exhausted body, using the sword as a prop.

Sauron never even saw him, so entranced was he by the Ring once more surging its power through every part of his body and soul. He felt like himself once more. It was wondrous, feeling how he had felt so many years ago when he had possessed true power. For centuries, he had yearned for this reunion. He felt whole again. The power sang within him, filling him with its dark song and fusing within his soul. His body no longer felt as one of the crumbling, weakling Elves. It felt like him again. He could not see if any physical transformation had taken place and he didn't care. His soul was free and whole. That was what mattered.

He had won. He had won the war. He was master of Middle Earth. It was indisputable now. He was undefeatable in battle, now he had his Precious back. Throwing back his head, he let out a great cry of sheer joy as the power surged to every part of his body, from his mind to the very tips of his toes. Finally, he saw the world again for what it was, no longer in a haze. Everything was clear.

And then, suddenly and without warning, it was gone. He didn't understand it but it drained from him so quickly that he was left reeling and fell to the ground, weak legs no longer able to support him. He literally felt the power granted him so briefly by the Ring he had coveted slowly leeching from him, its fire cooling in his veins and leaving him feeling limp and lifeless as it fled him. Glazed eyes moved down sluggishly to where pain was gnawing at him and he lifted his left arm. It took a long moment to register that it was gone. Half his arm was gone. From the elbow down was completely gone.

The pain did not immediately register and he looked about himself almost calmly with question written in his eyes as to where his arm had disappeared to. Then he saw. It lay limp and strange-looking upon the blood-soaked ground at the feet of Aragorn, King of Men. No ring rested over the finger though. It was gone. His Precious taken from him again. There waited Anduril, proud and boasting over its second victory over the Shadow. Narsil haunted him still.

But Aragorn had not put on the Ring. It was simply gone from sight. Anger flooded Sauron again and he attempted to stand but found that his body was not responding. He could not move. All he could do was stare helplessly up at the young man who, against all the odds, had bested him.

"Look at you now," said Aragorn slowly to him, looking down at the pitiful sight knelt before him.

"You-" spat Sauron but it didn't sound too threatening, slurred as his speech was becoming. "It's not…over-" He reached out a hand as if to grab at Aragorn's jacket but the man merely took a small step backwards and Sauron toppled, catching himself with his remaining hand before he fell face-down into the earth. "How…?"

"Ever have you underestimated the line of Isildur. It is your greatest failing even now."

Anduril came to rest close to him and Sauron knew then that it was true. This was the end. How, he could not fathom. But so it was true.

Aragorn raised Anduril high. It felt monumental, this moment. And yet he hesitated. He could say nothing. His throat was too tight for words. He wanted to beg forgiveness for a part of him knew that he was about to strike down Legolas' beloved father. He wanted Legolas to be here to advise him, although it would not have been objective anymore, he knew. And yet, as he began to bring the sword down hard against the craning neck, Aragorn knew somehow that this was a sacrifice that must be made and that neither Legolas nor his ill-fated father would object to the need. Indeed, in the milky blue eyes, so curiously like Legolas' beneath the veneer of Shadow placed over them, Aragorn fancied he saw understanding and forgiveness.

The final blow was immense and Aragorn had not been expecting it to be so.

Thrown backwards in a wave of incredible Black Magic, Aragorn felt a great blast of raw light and heat, almost as though flames were exploding over him although he felt no pain but that of his awkward landing on the ground several feet away. The ground beneath him trembled and shook, rattling his teeth. All around him, he saw people staggering to keep their balance as the ground quaked. Orcs looked around in amazement at what was happening and already they were beginning to flee, not stopped by the equally stunned Men. Another wave washed over them then and Aragorn threw himself back flat on the ground, covering his face with his arm as a shield against the white light and hot wind that blasted over him.

And then it was over. Everything cleared and went utterly silent.

**To Be Continued…**


	81. A Change Is Coming

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 81 – A Change Is Coming**

For the longest moment, everything seemed almost surreal in its peace. Only the sound of a gentle breeze rustling clothing and fallen banners broke up the silence. It was truly eerie. Even the remaining Orcs and Uruk-hai stood still, stunned into inactivity by the unexpected fall of their master and leader. They looked around, searching for the leadership they craved. They would not find it though. All that remained of the once all-powerful Dark Lord of Arda was a blackened crater and scorched ground where he had fallen at the point of Anduril.

Aragorn remained sat on the ground where he had landed, although he had managed to prop himself up with his arms to see what had occurred following his last desperate attempt to slay the Dark Lord Sauron. He stared unblinkingly at the remains of Evil that he had just conquered. It seemed impossible. Just moments previous he had been losing, he had fallen and he knew he should have died. In his head, he frantically replayed the battle in his mind but he could not pinpoint the moment when he had gained the upper hand. And yet somehow he had. Sauron – what was left of him - remained on the ground, pulverised into the very earth he had tainted with his tyranny, the Ring of Power was settled in his pocket as though nothing had happened. He could feel it thrumming deeply as though reverberating within him, mourning the loss of its master almost as if it could feel loss as a mortal soul could. It was somewhat disconcerting but Aragorn found, for the first time in months, that he could easily push all thought of that innocuous-looking band of gold from his mind. The weight suddenly disappeared from his shoulders and he physically slumped. He was free from the weight of his responsibility for the first time in many years and the relief was so great that he felt tears stinging his eyes. Blinking, he told himself that it was just the lingering smoke in the air making them water and he brushed his sleeve over his face, succeeding only in smearing gore and grime everywhere.

Just as suddenly as it had fallen silent, the sounds of battle abruptly returned as both sides realised what had happened. Aragorn could almost have believed that he had been momentarily deafened by the shock had it not been for the fact that until now, everything had been still as well. The Men realised that the Lord of Darkness was dead and gone and that there were still those amongst the Enemy alive on the battlefield. The Enemy also realised that they were surrounded, now close to being outnumbered and leaderless now that the Nazgul had fled and their master had fallen.

In a frank display of cowardice, the leaders of the Uruk-hai fled, leaving the underlings to either battle their way out or die where they stood at the hands of their enemy. No Man would take an Orc prisoner. There would be no surrender and no mercy.

Aragorn shook his head in surprise as the battle began raging around him again and his head was filled with the clanging of swords and the cries of death that had become familiar. Close by, he heard Faramir shouting orders to any Man that would listen and he thought that it should have been him giving instructions to his people. Of course, with Sauron's fall, the Orcs had no one to look to but that did not mean that they would simply disappear from the face of the earth. They still had to be beaten or driven away.

He knew that he should probably get up and help with the effort but he found that he could not get his legs working. It was as if he was pinned to the ground while all around him his men continued to fight bravely.

It wouldn't take long, he knew, for the Humans to overpower or chase away what remained of the now woefully disorganised Enemy.

Indeed, within minutes things were dying down again. Dawn was breaking, covering the field in grey light and highlighting the blood-stained earth in which he sat. Aragorn looked to the skies, tears still gathered in his eyes; he remained utterly stunned at what had happened. The clouds were roiling above him and he considered that although the weight of responsibility had left him little seemed to have changed. They were still at war. The world still dawned grey.

A shadow was cast over him and he turned his eyes down to find Eomer standing over him. His face was covered in dirt and blood and he was clearly injured but he was grinning widely as if overcome with happiness at their victory. Falling to his knees, Eomer dropped his weapon to the ground and suddenly Aragorn found himself engulfed in a tight hug. It was the last thing he had been expecting from the Rohan man. Eomer's arms were wrapped tightly around his neck but he didn't care at the aching it caused; it felt too wonderful to celebrate this moment to destroy it was complaints.

"It's over!" exclaimed the Rohan commander in a ragged voice filled with emotion. "You did it. It's finally over."

The words hit Aragorn and he gasped in shock when the Rohan warrior spoke them. It really was over. It had not occurred to him, not properly, until this moment when said aloud by another. He rested his chin against Eomer's broad shoulder, which was trembling he noticed, and let the tears slip from his eyes at last. What did it matter if he cried? Eomer was doing so.

"Can you believe it?" Eomer demanded of him ecstatically as he pulled away, still grinning like an excited child. He pressed his hands to either side of Aragorn's face and kissed each cheek in celebration. "You did it, Aragorn. He is gone. Rejoice."

A weak smile, trembling and uncertain came to Aragorn's lips and he realised that he must have looked a fright – far from the jubilant Eomer. He was happy, beyond words. But perhaps he would need some time to come to terms with it all before he could celebrate in the same way. Besides, exhaustion was tugging at his senses, pulling him away from coherence and threatening to drag him down entirely into its depths.

"You did well," smiled Eomer slightly more sedately this time.

Aragorn clasped his friend's arm and offered up the best smile he could manage. "_We_ did well, Eomer. All of us. Every one."

The commander agreed with an exaggerated nod of his head and looked around. Suddenly, he seemed to remember his reason for seeking out the king in the first place. His eyes turned to Aragorn first though, raking over his body and trying to determine whether any damage had been done in battle. Obviously his inspection was insufficient though as he then asked, "Are you injured?"

"Nothing major." In truth, Aragorn considered himself incredibly fortunate. He should have been dead by rights. He very nearly had been. And yet, he breathed still and despite myriad aches and pains all over his body, he was grateful to have lived.

"Good. What little of the Enemy that remains are being rounded up as we speak. Many have retreated but I have not given the order to follow them. Let us worry about that at a later date, if you are in agreement."

"Yes." There would be time to cleanse Middle Earth fully later. The Men who still stood had done enough and could do no more now. The Orcs were scattered and leaderless now; they would be easy to hunt down later. Eomer's words, however, prompted Aragorn that things were not done yet. There was much yet to organise. Many were injured and would have to be carried back to the healing camp. The dead would have to be collected for they could not be left to rot amongst the Orc corpses; they were heroes of battle and must be honoured as such in death.

He climbed to his feet, allowing Eomer to lever him up, and took a moment to regain his equilibrium.

All about him had returned to chaos. Men and women roamed everywhere, searching out the unfortunate Enemy who still lived as well as looking for their own injured amongst the fallen. They looked exhausted but pleased with the victory.

"Eomer, help to get the wounded back to camp. None of the dead will be forsaken here to rest amongst the Shadow. Each must be accounted for and given proper honours. Many died honourably here."

"Yes, my Lord," bowed Eomer deeply. He looked to Aragorn for permission to move off to do as asked, which Aragorn granted with a nod.

He walked amongst the carnage for a while, searching for those he could help. Several times, he went back and forth from the camp where the healers were already working their way through the hurt. Not many had escaped without injury – including Aragorn himself. His ribs ached fiercely from the encounter with the Troll and his whole body ached with exhaustion and the remnants of some ancient power that had been thrust at him upon the Dark Lord's demise.

"Aragorn!" Jecha approached him, favouring one leg. Clearly he had been hurt but he was still on his feet. For a moment though Aragorn did not know who he spoke to; for the first time he was seeing the Easterling without his customary shroud covering his face. A bright smile lit up the handsome face, twinkling in the deep brown eyes that Aragorn was more familiar with. Fine lines around the eyes indicated that he was probably older than Aragorn had previously guessed but he remained noble and proud, probably just as good-looking now as he had been in his youth. Still, Aragorn found himself oddly surprised that the Easterling had dismissed what had become his constant state of dress. It was not what he expected.

"Jecha," the man greeted once he had pulled himself together and lowered his eyes so as not to appear to be staring at the unfamiliar sight.

"Congratulations on your victory, Sire."

"Uh, thank you." Jecha embraced him briefly and pulled back with another dazzling smile, showing white teeth. "Are you hurt?" Aragorn asked, gesturing to the Easterling's leg.

"Oh. It is but a scratch. You?"

"No." Aragorn realised that Jecha was probably wondering at his presence in the camp amongst the healers. "Just helping to clear the patients."

"Well, there is plenty to be getting on with. I'm sure the healers can put you to work."

"I meant…on the battlefield-" Aragorn started as Jecha went to lead him towards where the healers were gathered around their many patients.

"Nonsense, you are of far better use to us here."

It was not hard to see that Jecha merely wanted the king away from the battlefield, away from any danger that might still linger for. It would be a shame for him to have survived the battle only to be taken down by a stray Orc or Uruk that had happened to survive the slaughter. Aragorn wondered, as he was led amongst patients to a triage area, whether this was the beginning of his life as a king. Was he destined to forever remain in the shadows now, away from battle and protected within a bubble of greater warriors? Somehow it didn't seem right. And yet he couldn't help but feel somewhat relieved now to be away from the heavy atmosphere of the battlefield.

Despite his concerns though, Jecha was correct - there was plenty to do in the healing camp. He was put to work aiding the healers in their duties. His own training as a medic was sorely lacking but he picked things up quickly and was soon applying bandages fashioned from torn up blankets like a professional.

People seemed thrilled to have him amongst them. Everyone he met congratulated him on his great victory even though they had been injured, some seriously, in the battle. Never had he expected such wonderful commitment from his people. It was humbling considering he had only recently been named king.

At some point, Valon, head healer of the Rohirrim, noted Aragorn cradling his arm and breathing shallowly and insisted upon knowing what pained him. After a considerable argument that had raged loud but shortly, Aragorn consented to be checked over, insisting all the time that it was simply bruised ribs and nothing serious. A self-diagnosis that Valon confirmed after a quick examination. He was ordered not to do any heavy lifting and get some rest. Of course, Aragorn had absolutely no intention of obeying. Men were walking around carrying out their duties with worse wounds than his he could not be seen to be shunning his duties.

Pulling back on his shirt, Aragorn got up from the ground where he had been forced to endure his exam and went to go to the door when something caught his eye. A flash of gold. For an instant his heart stopped and he thought of Legolas – or Legolas' unfortunate father slain on the battlefield. But after a second sense returned to him and he realised why he recognised the person laid on the ground.

"Eowyn?!"

The woman was laid on the ground covered up to her chest with a blanket. Her eyes were closed, her face pale but she was still breathing steadily. He knelt down next to her and took her hand.

"Eowyn? Can you hear me?"

"Aragorn?" she mumbled, cracking one green eye open to look at who was disturbing her rest.

"What happened to you?"

"Orc," she replied simply and it seemed to be an effort.

"You were in battle? I thought Eomer instructed you to remain behind," Aragorn noted, recalling the argument that had ensued when Eomer had forbade her from riding out with the others.

"He did," she smiled weakly back at him. "I couldn't stay behind whilst others went out to fight." Looking pleadingly up at him, she asked, "You understand that, don't you? I couldn't stay behind, Aragorn. I couldn't."

"Don't worry about that now," he reassured, looking around himself already. To a healer passing by, he ordered, "Go fetch Eomer. Now!"

Eowyn's eyes had fallen closed again and she sighed softly to herself. Aragorn summoned another healer. Valon was nowhere to be seen and he didn't want to wait for her to get attention.

"Let the healer look at you now, Eowyn," Aragorn told her soothingly as the healer began to look her over. "Your brother is on his way."

She rolled her eyes at him and let out a hiss of pain as the healer probed her stomach for wounds. "He will be angry, Aragorn. I disobeyed him."

Aragorn shook his head softly and offered her a reassuring smile. "He will be relieved that you are all right, I assure you. You were very brave to go into battle as you did. He will appreciate that."

"Brave," she scoffed, her eyes looking skywards now. "How do you know I was? I was terrified the whole time."

"It takes great strength of character to willingly plunge into battle when you have been given the option of remaining behind. For that, if nothing else, you should be commended," he told her gently, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb and wondering at the scrapes there. Clearly, she had been deeply involved in the fighting. The thought of her locked in battle with a creature of the Shadow chilled him more than he would ever admit.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," she whispered softly, her eyes now locked on him and shining with appreciation.

At this, Aragorn blushed deeply. He could not get used to being addressed thusly and certainly not by those he had known for a long time.

"Aragorn," he corrected. "Please call me Aragorn – as always."

With a gentle nod, she smiled at him and it made him blush all the more. He had never noticed before what a pretty smile she had.

Just as he was about to open his mouth to mention it, Eomer's voice swept over him.

"What on earth did you think you were doing?!" he shouted, his voice a mix of anger and panic. "Are you all right? Is she all right?" he demanded of the healer attending her.

"I'm fine," answered Eowyn reassuringly, her gaze flicking downwards to where Aragorn's hand had left hers.

"She will be fine. She has sustained a few bruises and a nasty knock to the head. But given chance to rest, she will recover," answered the healer in more detail. "I do need space to treat her though, if you care to give me some room."

Realising that they had effectively been dismissed, Aragorn got up from the ground and took Eomer's shoulder to lead him away. "Come, let him work."

As he was led away, Eomer demanded to know, "Where is Valon? He should be treating her personally."

"This healer is perfectly capable. She will be fine, Eomer. You know this."

"What was she thinking charging off into battle like that and getting hurt?"

"She was thinking like her brother. And I doubt it was her intention to get injured. She just wanted to defend what she believed in. You have to commend that."

"No, I don't," Eomer stated decisively.

"Well, I do. You cannot blame her, Eomer. You must have known that she did not want to be left behind."

"Of course. But I thought her more sensible. She could have been killed."

"But she was not. She is well. Now, come, there is much to do."

Pulling himself together, Eomer nodded and looked to Aragorn. "Thank you for staying with her until I arrived."

"Of course."

"All right, let's try to clear some more of the field."

Eomer led his king back out onto the battlefield. Much had been done already. The Orc bodies had been moved only to ensure that they were not concealing any Humans beneath them. Men were carrying Men back up to the high ground. All of the survivors had now been aided up to the healers and were receiving treatment for their wounds. Already people were collecting whatever they could find to construct pyres for the dead. They would be given proper ceremony before the army moved out. The Orcs would be left to rot. If nothing else, they would be good food for the crows already circling overhead.

It was dawn the next day when the last of the pyres was ignited. All around the five great pyres burning, Men stood to pay their respects. Flags bearing the White Tree, although mostly torn and tattered, had been planted next to each fire in tribute. Heads were hung and tears were shed for those who had died in the fight for peace.

Aragorn stood in contemplative silence. Some of his friends were being reduced to ashes as he watched. Janor, he had learned, had perished in battle, as had the Ranger scout Tarsem and seven other of his fellow Rangers. The Gondorians had lost many also. Faramir's most trusted lieutenant had perished protecting his commander. So too had Bracell of Jecha's group. Telling his wife and daughter of his demise had not been pleasant and Aragorn had felt completely useless as the woman had cried onto his shoulder. The Rohirrim had also suffered many losses. All but a couple of their great warhorses had been killed in battle and they grieved for them as deeply as they did the Human losses.

Aragorn mourned all their losses greatly. He felt responsible for every single death. With his head bowed, he begged whatever deity might be listening to give him the strength to guide them on from this tragedy. It had been a wonderful coup for the fighters of freedom to win this battle but they had paid a heavy price indeed for their victory. But that was the price of battle, Aragorn knew.

He recalled, as he stood watching the flames lapping at the skies, that night in Bree when he had been overwhelmed by the scale of what he was attempting and he had fled in anger and terror only for Legolas to find him cowering outside in tears. His guardian and eased his fears that night, had told him that every soldier knew the price of war and went willingly into battle for him. Legolas had maintained that when the time came, he would know what was right. And he did. That was what troubled him now. He stood before these pyres watching friends turn to ashes and yet he knew that they had died for something and that he had done the right thing. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that.

"Look! Look at that," someone from the gathered crowd gasped in amazement, prompting Aragorn to open his eyes to see what the commotion around him was all about.

"Would you look at that," another exclaimed and soon everyone was echoing the sentiment.

Aragorn followed the upturned gaze of Eomer who stood next to him supporting his still recovering sister.

Wonder replaced sadness as he looked up towards the heavens.

The thick, unnatural grey clouds of pollution that had blanketed the skies over Arda for as long as Aragorn had been alive - and a lot longer besides - had begun to disperse and parted directly above the congregation of Men honouring their dead. In place of the dense roiling black clouds of unnatural creation, was a patch of brilliant blue sky, clear and wonderful and unlike anything any of them had ever seen before. It was miraculous and taken as a sign that the evil of Sauron, the terror-reign of the Shadow, was at long last being replaced by the purity of the Light. All around, people stood staring upwards in awe, grinning and laughing as sunlight, pure and unfiltered lit the ground for the first time in almost a century.

Aragorn stared long and hard at the patch of brilliant blue, unwilling to blink lest it disappear completely from sight and never be seen again. He felt tears slide down to wet his cheeks but he didn't care. He could hardly believe that such a thing had occurred and his tears were a celebration of this most unexpected change in his world.

He didn't realise that he had fallen to his knees until he felt Eomer's hand come down to rest supportively on his shoulder.

This was what truly great relief felt like, he thought, as he fought the urge to break down and sob in great thanks for whatever was blessing them with this rare moment. He wished that Legolas was here with him to share this wonder. Almost crushing grief washed over him at the absence of his guardian and he laid his hand against his chest to ease the pain growing there behind his ribs. He could so easily picture the look of sheer joy that would have been on Legolas' face had he been alive to witness this moment.

Sunlight, bright and yellow, played over Aragorn's face and he revelled for a moment in its unique warmth. Never had he felt such warmth. He could have sat there all day and basked in it, so wondrous it felt upon his grey, chilled skin.

After a few minutes of bathing thusly, the sunlight was shaded and he felt a drop of rain splash down on his face.

The rain came down on the gathered Men but none of them wished to flee from the gentle downpour. This was not the hard, stinging rain of the past but a cleansing rain that promised to wash away the evil that had tainted the very lands with its filth and the sunlight yet lingered over the parched earth. No longer did the air feel heavy and oppressive but rather clean, freshened by the long-forgotten weather. People turned around and around, arms outstretched, faces directed to the heavens as if in praise of this change in the elements and encourage it to continue.

Aragorn felt himself soon get soaked but he didn't mind as it washed away the blood and sadness that had covered him for so long.

For a long time, the Men either celebrated openly the symbol of the end of their oppression or, like their king, fell into silent reverie brought on by sadness and regret over the loss of a loved one not there to witness the miracle. It was a stark contrast of moods and yet the atmosphere was not dampened one bit as the two clashed.

The celebrations and mourning could only last for so long though. Once the pyres had burned themselves out, people began to retreat back to the camp. They were exhausted after the long battle and wanted to rest now that the threat had passed them by before they were made to continue back on the road to Gondor, which even now Men were speaking about with excitement.

Aragorn remained until last, sat where he had fallen upon the start of the rains, left alone by those retreating around him. Now, he looked up to the skies to find that although it rained still, the sky was beginning to clear again at last. Night was coming in and already he could see the small dots of shimmering silver that Legolas had told him once were stars. He had never set eyes on them before and for a moment he sat entranced. Of this, Legolas most certainly would have rejoiced. Upon his deathbed, the Elf had lamented the veiled stars, he recalled. He had wanted to be under them looking up at their beauty. Aragorn could not grant this wish though. He had felt powerless and he felt regret now that there was nothing he could have done for this would have been a spectacular thing to see in one's last moments on Arda. It was all too late now though. Legolas was gone and would never enjoy seeing Middle Earth the way he remembered it from his youth.

"Aragorn, my friend, we should go now."

"In a moment, Eomer."

Respectfully, Eomer stepped backwards, giving his king the time he needed.

Mercifully though, it didn't take long for Aragorn to gain his feet after being prompted. Turning, the king smiled softly at his old friend.

"Arda rejoices our victory," Aragorn smiled at the Rohan man who nodded in agreement.

"And yet, my Lord, you still seem troubled."

"Yes. There is something-" Aragorn's hand moved almost unconsciously to his pocket. "There is something we have to discuss. Find Jecha, Faramir and Halbarad and bring them to me."

"Right now?"

"It is of great importance. We must leave this night."

"Leave, my Lord?"

"Go."

Not knowing what on earth this was all about considering that just an hour ago they were celebrating their great victory over the Shadow, Eomer nevertheless nodded and moved away to do as he had been asked.

Aragorn followed him back to the camp, more slowly as he considered his next step. The battle may have been won but the war would not truly be over until he had completed this one final great task. He didn't even know what exactly was prompting him forward with such urgency so suddenly. Sauron was dead and gone, a crater in the earth he had poisoned. And yet Aragorn somehow knew that this was not the end of it. He could not be certain that the Dark Lord would never rise again until every last part of that Evil was gone for good. And a large part of the Shadow still existed in the small band of gold still resting heavily in Aragorn's pocket.

**OIOI**

"You want to go into Mordor? Why?" Faramir asked in exasperation, not understanding what had prompted this decision from the king. "We won, remember? I know that there are Orcs and other such creatures yet to rid the world of but surely it can wait until we have regrouped. Why go to the trouble now?"

"Because it is not over yet. And until I complete this last task it won't be over completely."

"What task?" asked Eomer somewhat more calmly than his Gondorian counterpart. "What lies in Mordor for us?"

"Nothing." Aragorn bowed his head, his fingers sliding around the cold band of gold thoughtfully. "But I must go."

"Why?"

Suddenly Aragorn found himself torn. He wanted to share with his friends, his fellow commanders, the truth about this last part of their quest but in his mind echoed Legolas' words in Edoras. He had told his young ward never to reveal to anyone that he possessed the Ring of Power. And Aragorn had stuck to that promise, never once being tempted to tell another soul of his charge. But things had changed since Edoras. Legolas was gone and Aragorn was alone with this burden. He needed to tell them, needed to share the load.

"Because it won't ever be over whilst a part of the Dark Lord yet lives."

The four commanders looked to each other in confusion. It was Halbarad of the Rangers who spoke first. "Sauron still lives? What do you mean by this, my Lord?"

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Aragorn pulled the Ring of Power out of his pocket and held it within a tightly clenched fist for a moment before finally showing the golden burden to the others. Although he knew that as a mystical object it was all but useless now he could still feel its power subtly thrumming down his fingers, tempting him.

Three of them had no clue what they were looking at. An unremarkable-looking ring was not a sufficient answer to their questions over going into the Black Lands.

So Faramir voiced to the group, "A piece of jewellery?"

Aragorn could have laughed. So much pressure had been placed on him over the years about this 'piece of jewellery'; to hear it described in such a flippant manner was almost comical.

But for Jecha, understanding clicked in instantly.

"That is not…what I believe it to be?" he asked in wonder, his eyes wide, shadowed by the shroud he had replaced around his face.

"Sauron's Ring. His power yet lives within this. Whilst it remains, he will never be truly gone."

"How long have you had this?" Jecha almost demanded of him, his eyes glued on the Ring held before him. "All throughout this campaign?"

"Much longer. My father gave it to me before his death when I was but a child."

"All this time it has been in your hands."

"Reluctantly so, yes."

"Do you have any idea how dangerous this thing is?" demanded Jecha, almost as though in anger of Aragorn keeping this secret from his fellow soldiers all this time.

"I have a vague notion," Aragorn muttered sarcastically.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand. What exactly is this thing?" Faramir asked, interrupting in order to gain answers from the only two people who seemed to know what was going on.

"The One Ring that Sauron long ago forged with the intent of holding all his dark magics within it and ruling over all the other Rings he had made, held by the three ring-bearers, whom he exterminated one by one. It is how he managed to return to power millennia ago. Isildur, Aragorn's ancestor, cut the Ring from Sauron's finger during the First War. It was thereafter thought to have been lost," explained Jecha, displaying knowledge on the subject that surprised even Aragorn. "But it seems it has been amongst us all this time. Not lost at all."

"Are you saying that Sauron lives within that Ring?" Halbarad asked cautiously, his eyes full of suspicion and fixated on the Ring resting in Aragorn's palm.

"In a manner. He bound himself to the Ring. So I suppose you could say that he is a part of it. If the Ring survives then so does he."

Eomer put in, "That is an extremely troubling thought."

"I should say."

Faramir asked, looking intently at the Ring, "All right; tell me how this involves marching into Mordor, which, by the way, remains crawling with the Enemy?"

"The Ring must be destroyed," Aragorn said poignantly.

For a moment, the Gondorian man remained silent in anticipation and then said, "My question still stands."

"It is of Mordor. That is where it began, that it where it must be unmade."

"Unmade?"

"Within the Mountain of Fire," suggested Jecha, once more calling upon his knowledge of the legendary One Ring.

"I learned somewhat of it from Erestor in Rivendell – what he deigned to tell me anyway. I intend to take it deep within the Mountain of Shadow, make sure no one can ever lay hands on it again." Aragorn surprised himself with how determined he sounded. It was certainly more than he felt in his heart.

"Bold."

"But necessary, I believe."

Eomer asked then, "Did you ever discuss this with Legolas? What was his advice?"

Shaking his head, Aragorn confessed, "I hid it from him for many long years. Only in Rohan did I reveal to him the truth. He was angry. Not that I had hidden it from him but that I had revealed to him that it was in my possession. He told me never to speak of it to another living soul, that it was too dangerous to disclose its presence to any other. I believed him to be right. But no longer can I keep it a secret. The Dark Lord is dead at last and this is the final battle. I must destroy it. I know this to be the right decision."

"The One Ring is rumoured to be incredibly powerful Aragorn. Have you considered it might be prudent, given the challenges in your rule that lie ahead of you, to keep it?"

Aragorn looked in surprise at Jecha's question. It had never occurred to him to actually keep the thing; it had caused him so much trouble over the years and brought him no significant gain. "No. Why would I? I want to be rid of it. It has been nothing but a burden since the moment I was first bequeathed it. You would know if you had carried it all these past years." He calmed the fire that had burned in his chest at the thought of keeping it and once his heart-rate had steadied somewhat he continued, "Sauron's essence yet runs through the Ring. I don't want any single part of him to remain. Not one thing. And I certainly don't want it tainting me any further."

Eomer agreed wholeheartedly, "A wise precaution, my Lord."

Jecha looked suitably told off and protested no more but still sat back as though offended by his Lord's words. There was something strange in his eyes that Aragorn had never seen before. He barely had time to muse upon what it was though before the Easterling blinked and the look disappeared.

"Walking into Mordor, even with the lord of that land gone, is a dangerous proposition. It should not be undertaken lightly, Aragorn," warned Faramir, who in his time as commander in Osgiliath just a few leagues away from the Black Lands had seen and heard plenty of Mordor.

"And I do not do it lightly, Faramir. Long have I thought upon this day. I know in my heart that it is the right thing."

For a long moment then, Aragorn became lost in his own thoughts, almost oblivious to the commanders around him speaking. He remembered the feeling of being so burdened when all around him was becoming darker. He remembered the threat of the Wraiths and Legolas telling him once that he should avoid encounters with such creatures as best as possible given his burden. Perhaps had he not possessed that dreaded Ring then his guardian might still be alive today. He might have fought the Wraith and won with no need for Legolas to ever become involved with the wretched creatures. How he would have loved for that to have been the case.

But then, he supposed that had Arathorn never possessed the Ring, he would never have felt the need to pass on guardianship of his son to Legolas and Aragorn and the Elf would never have met at all. He could not imagine his life without the guidance of the Elf and, for all that had happened, would never wish it either.

A blessing and a curse.

Softly, Aragorn added with great thought, "If I don't do this, it won't ever be over."

Faramir sat back with a heavy sigh. He could offer no further argument; he could see the great weight on his king and he felt sympathy for it. It was not something that he would wish for.

"It will be over," said Eomer with renewed determination. "We will go into Mordor and destroy the damned thing and it will all be over for good. Never again will we have to think on this Evil."

Aragorn's hand drifted to his pocket, again his mind distracted, as though the Ring sought to distract him from what he intended to do. "I do not think that is possible. It will always be here. With me. Calling-"

Eomer's hand came down on Aragorn's shoulder and the younger man snapped so suddenly from his dark thoughts that he physically startled.

"We may never forget the trouble this has caused, Your Majesty, but we can be rid of this terror now." Halbarad had a look of determination in his grey eyes to match that of every other man gathered in conference and Aragorn suddenly found himself relieved beyond belief that he was blessed with such friends. Without them, he was sure to have drowned in his responsibilities by now.

"First thing tomorrow, we will leave for the land of Mordor," stated Eomer firmly. "A small contingent will move faster over the mountains and attract less attention to those yet lingering in those lands."

"No. Now," Aragorn said quickly, finally looking up at those around him. "Now. We must leave as soon as possible."

"No. You are exhausted, I am exhausted, we all are," Eomer told him, looking to the others for their nods of agreement. "We have battled long and hard. We must all get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow we will leave."

A part of Aragorn wanted to protest. In his chest beat the almost desperate urge to be in Mordor and getting rid of the Ring that had brought him so much pain and grief. But he did see the sense in Eomer's proposition. He could not deny it; he was tired and his body craved rest even as his mind reeled with the possibility of soon being rid of the Ring of Power forged by Sauron.

So, he nodded. "Very well. First thing in the morning."

The others also nodded in agreement, each slightly relieved that Eomer had made the suggestion. The prospect of traipsing over the mountains and heading into the hot, dangerous lands of Mordor whilst they still recovered, body and mind, from the horror of their recent battle was not a pleasant one.

Whilst the others got up to return to their respective places around the camp, Eomer remained for a moment and asked of Aragorn, "Are you going to be all right?"

"Of course."

For a long moment, Eomer stared into stormy grey eyes, watching for any flicker of a lie. He clearly saw nothing though, as he broke contact and nodded again. Tapping Aragorn's arm, he said, "Get some rest."

"I will." In truth, he was exhausted and the thought of sleep this night was almost as much as a relief as the thought of ridding himself of the Ring in his pocket. "Thank you, my friend. Without you I…I would be lost."

Eomer grinned at him. "Quite right! You are most welcome. Now sleep. You look worse than I do."

"Clearly you have not looked at your reflection in the last couple of days. You look a fright, you know."

Again, Eomer laughed good-heartedly. "And what, then, does that tell you about your appearance?! Although, I doubt there is anyone here who looks a whole lot different from us."

"If Legolas were here, he would look unruffled," Aragorn said quietly, with a small smile upon his face.

Eomer was startled by this. Since Legolas' death Aragorn had barely mentioned him out loud. Thinking that the subject was just too painful for him to dwell upon, no one had brought it up around him. It was a surprise, and not an unpleasant one, to now hear the young man speak of his lost mentor.

"That he would. And he would be the envy of every man here."

"You speak well of him now?"

"Of course I do. I liked Legolas – despite all evidence to the contrary." Eomer smiled when Aragorn chuckled softly to himself. "And I am deeply sorry for his loss. I am sorry that he missed this moment. For your sake as much as any. I know he would be proud of you. I can picture his face."

"That is all I would wish. Ever have I sought to make him proud. Sometimes it seemed an impossible task."

Frowning, Eomer asked, "What do you mean?" When Aragorn didn't answer, merely bowed his head to the ground, the Rohan man continued, "He was proud of you every moment of every day."

"Sometimes he had a funny way of showing it." It was not said in anger, for Eomer heard the young king's voice crack in sorrow.

"To you perhaps. But to those around you, it was obvious that he was proud. It showed on his face every time you made a decision, whether he thought it right or wrong. Every little victory, he fairly glowed with pride."

Aragorn looked up, his eyes wet with tears. He was not ashamed to cry before Eomer. They had been through much together and there was little he could hide from the Rohan commander. "Really?"

"Don't ever think he wasn't. He cared for you as a father would a son."

"I miss him. I miss his guidance. Sometimes I feel I might fail without him to help me wade through this task."

"When my uncle passed away right before my eyes, I felt much the same way. I was left with a devastated kingdom with every man, woman and child looking to me to know what to do. But I managed. I learnt as I went along and soon it just came naturally."

"I hope it will be the same with me."

"Would you give yourself a break? You just led your people to victory! Rejoice! Do not despair. Legolas would not want that. In fact, he would chastise you right now, I think."

"Yes, you are right," smiled Aragorn weakly.

"He would have done anything for you, Aragorn. Don't ever forget that. Don't ever lessen his sacrifice. It was a great thing."

Aragorn nodded, wiping his tears away with his sleeve.

"There will be time to grieve when we reach home. Let us sleep this night. Then we will rid ourselves of Sauron's final curse and be done with that creature of Shadow."

Taking a deep breath, feeling better after speaking frankly with Eomer than he had in a long time, Aragorn said, "Thank you. Sleep well."

"You too." Eomer patted Aragorn's shoulder as he stood, casting one last encouraging look towards the king before turning to search out his sister and get some rest himself. How things had changed. He could well imagine Legolas' surprise had he been privy to the praise being heaped onto him by one who had been at best ambivalent towards him. Still, the boy needed the boost to his morale and he had wanted to speak of his guardian. Who was Eomer to deny his king? And, strangely, he found that he meant the words he had spoken. He missed Legolas too. Long had they argued and they had hardly gotten along when they first met. In fact, he recalled having to be physically prised off of the Elf at their first meeting when Legolas had goaded him into reacting. But things had changed much since then. He had come to respect Legolas' bravery and his honesty and loyalty to his ward. That respect went a long way and he had been saddened the day he had discovered Legolas' death.

"Where have you been?" Eowyn interrupted his thoughts. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing," he immediately snapped even as he fiercely wiped at the tears streaking his cheeks. "I was just thinking of…those lost."

"Oh." Eowyn was propped up against an upturned crate that looked to have once contained Orkish weaponry, probably brought from Minas Tirith by the Gondorians. She looked pale in the light of the fires but he could tell that she was no longer in any real danger. He felt relief replace the grief and he smiled as he took a seat beside her. "What?"

"What?" he shot back.

"You have that look in your eyes again."

"What look are you referring to, exactly?"

"That something has happened and you're debating whether to be truthful with me or not," she told him knowingly.

He sighed. "Yes."

"Then debate no long and tell me what it is."

"Tomorrow you will be starting back upon the road to Gondor. You will return to Minas Tirith and recover there. I will join you later," he told her the vague plan, hoping that she would leave it at that and he would not have to tell her exactly where he was going. He knew that she would not be pleased with his decision to leave her to return to the White City alone.

However, Eowyn was not one to just accept what she was told without pressing for details. Concern shone in her eyes as she asked, "Why will you not be joining me?"

"I will be taking a different road, Eowyn; one you cannot tread with me."

"Where will you be going?"

"There is one last task I must complete before I can return to Gondor."

"What task, Eomer? Why won't you just tell me?" she asked urgently, taking his hand and squeezing it tight.

"Something for Aragorn. Please do not ask me for details. They are not mine to disclose and for you to know the truth would only place you in danger."

"What danger? The war is won, isn't it?"

"Yes." He bent to the side and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Please do not worry."

"Is it dangerous, this task?"

He could not lie to her, he found, about this. "There is some danger. But all will be well."

"Is there any way I can convince you not to go, to return with me to the city?"

"I cannot, Eowyn. I have to help Aragorn. He needs me."

She sighed heavily. The thought of her brother wandering back into danger having survived the battle of their lives was not appealing but what could she say? Eomer loved Aragorn, there was no denying it. He had proven already that he would walk into the fire for him. She could not expect that to change now that the battle was won.

"All right. Please promise me that you'll be careful."

"I will be, you have my word."

Nodding, Eowyn laid her head against her brother's shoulder. "I don't suppose there's any chance you'd consent to me going with you?"

"No chance at all," he smiled even though his tone was final.

**OIOI**

The camp was quiet. Everyone but the few guards scattered around on duty, watchful in case of further Orc sightings, was deeply asleep, still exhausted by the battle just fought.

One, however, was creeping on almost silent feet around the slumbering bodies of his comrades. He did not fear waking any of them. Even if they did stir there would be nothing out of the ordinary about him being up and about. He doubted they would challenge him even if they did think his actions strange. Many still feared him and his companion. Before it had been somewhat of a nuisance to never have the trust of those he fought alongside; tonight if he were discovered awake whilst everyone else slept no one would dare approach him and that was a blessing that made all the previous discomfort worth it.

It was obvious where the one he sought slept. Around him were Halbarad and his Rangers, who seemed to have appointed themselves the king's unofficial guardians since coming to Minas Tirith and joining the cause. He stepped around them. None were still awake. As guards, they had much left to learn, he thought with a smile.

Aragorn laid on his back only half covered in a blanket despite the damp chill in the air. He was sound asleep and it was not surprising. He had seemed exhausted earlier during their discussion. Perhaps, he would not wake.

Looking around in the soft glow of the fire, he checked that no one had been disturbed by his presence. Bar the odd snore or grunt though, nothing stirred in the camp. So, looking back to his target, he crouched down, poised effortlessly next to the king.

So often had he seen Aragorn unconsciously touch at his left jacket pocket that he knew immediately and without question where to look. Confident that the young man was not going to be disturbed, he reached into the pocket, fingers scrabbling carefully about for the feel of cool metal.

But he could not find anything. The Ring was gone.

"What-!" Aragorn was disturbed right away by the exclamation of disbelief and his eyes snapped open. The threat prompted him to leap backwards where he laid so that he was almost on top of one unfortunate Ranger sleeping nearby.

The intruder into the king's space tried to scramble backwards in order to climb to his feet and escape from those waking up all around him but it was too late. He stumbled and fell and was immediately surrounded for there was no doubt at all that he was the one who had disturbed the king and caused him to cry out.

"Do not move, or I will kill you," growled the threatening voice of Halbarad.

A sword tip was pressed to his throat, close enough to make good on the threat, and he wisely kept still. There was no way he could run now.

"What is going on?" This time it was Faramir asking the question. He too had been disturbed and was currently helping Aragorn to his feet. "What happened?"

"He was attacking the king," said Halbarad, motioning with his sword to the throat of his prisoner.

"Who?"

"That, I was just about to find out. Watch him," Halbarad ordered his Rangers who had all drawn their weapons and had them trained upon the intruder. The leader of the Rangers himself bent down and pulled back the hood of the thick brown cloak concealing the intruder. Beneath the cloak was yet another layer. Scarlet robes and black cloth swathing the face.

"Jecha?" Aragorn asked immediately upon seeing the uniform of the Easterling.

Unsatisfied, Halbarad pulled away the mask to reveal the hidden face.

Not Jecha, it turned out. "Sonal," Aragorn corrected himself. Jecha's taciturn companion. "What…?"

"You damned traitor!" shouted Faramir, ripping his sword from its sheath in fury at the betrayal. There was no fear of waking anyone else; everyone seemed to already have been disturbed by the ruckus.

"Were you looking for this?" Aragorn then asked with enviable calm, pulling the Ring out from where it had been hidden hanging on a length of string beneath his shirt.

Dark eyes shone with anger and want as they glared at the Ring. "You must give me that," Sonal said, his voice so heavily accented that Aragorn had to concentrate on the words in order to understand them. He couldn't recall Sonal ever speaking directly to him before.

"I must do nothing for you."

"You do not understand, child. The Ring is mine."

"I don't think so. It belongs to no one."

"Then you will not miss it. Give it to me." Aragorn just glared at him and Sonal felt the tip of a Ranger's sword pressed close enough to his skin to draw blood. "You have no idea what the Ring is capable of. The power it can endow upon a person. And you plan to squander this great gift to our peoples. It is foolishness, child."

Anger flared in Aragorn's heart at this ignorance. "The Ring is Evil. It knows nothing else and will corrupt any man foolish enough to attempt to control it. You are the fool, Sonal, not I." He looked then to Halbarad and ordered, "Keep him restrained. And find Jecha. Bring him to me."

"Yes, sir."

It didn't take long for Jecha to be led through the gathered crowd. He walked as though he knew he was being brought before the king for some wrongdoing and the look of regret in his eyes made Aragorn's heart sink for there was little doubt that he knew of his companion's plan to steal the Ring.

Steeling himself, Aragorn straightened out and demanded of the second Easterling, "Explain this."

Jecha looked at the older man still held at sword-point on the ground. There was regret clearly shining in his eyes but something else as well. Disappointment. Aragorn got the terrible feeling that it was rather because of his companion's failure to complete the mission without getting caught rather than because of his actions this night.

Rather than answering Aragorn's question though, Jecha seemed to ask one of his own of Sonal in their own language, which no one else could understand. Aragorn did not like the thought that they could communicate anything without anyone else knowing one bit so he put a stop to it.

"Jecha. Answer me."

With a heavy sigh, the Easterling turned to Aragorn, eyes glinting somewhat dangerously in the light of the fires. "I really am sorry, Aragorn, but I am going to have to insist that you give me the Ring now."

Halbarad scoffed at this and pointed out, "You do realise that you're in no position to be insisting anything?"

"Oh, I don't know."

Jecha pulled his own curved sword from its sheath and boldly pointed it at Aragorn. With Sonal considered the main problem, no one had been guarding Jecha but the moment the threat was made against the king many swords were drawn and pointed at the other Easterling.

"Lower your weapon," ordered Halbarad in a low, dangerous voice. "Now."

"Please understand why I cannot do that."

All anger had drained from Aragorn by now. He just felt sad and disappointed at this most unexpected betrayal. Ever since he had first become allied with this man and his somewhat eclectic band of followers he had liked Jecha, had come to trust him and look to him for knowledge and guidance, even when Legolas had been there to offer the same. More than that though, he had considered Jecha to be a friend. Never had he anticipated this betrayal of trust.

"Why would you do this to me?" Aragorn asked of the Easterling in a soft voice that he found difficult to keep from trembling. "Why?"

Again with a sigh, Jecha looked down at Sonal, who still cowered on the ground at knifepoint. "Loyalty," was his simple answer.

Looking down somewhat distastefully at Sonal, with whom he shared no friendship whatsoever, Aragorn asked, "What about your loyalty to me? Is that worth nothing? Is my friendship worth nothing to you?"

"Blood runs deeper than friendship," Jecha told him immediately.

Confirming what he suspected, that Jecha and Sonal, apart from being from the same region of Middle Earth, were also related by blood, did nothing to ease Aragorn's anger and disappointment. He knew not whether they were father and son, nor did he care much anymore.

"Do not continue upon this course, Jecha," Faramir interrupted, acutely aware that Jecha's deadly sharp sword remained pointed at Aragorn. "Put down your weapon or we will be forced to take it from you."

At this point, although Jecha never even wavered, Sonal shouted something in his own language. Aragorn didn't have to understand the words to know what was being said. Jecha was being ordered not to back down, to get the One Ring from the king at all costs. It was a foolish thing now. Surely Jecha and Sonal were intelligent enough to know this to be true. And yet their convictions held them firm. They would not falter.

"I cannot, I'm afraid, Faramir. I need that Ring, Aragorn. You need to give it to me now."

"It's not going to happen," said the man of Gondor firmly.

Halbarad warned, "Last chance. Put the sword down. Now!"

"With that Ring, we could do wonderful things. You don't know! So much power and you are willing to just throw it all away!"

"More than willing," replied Aragorn without hesitation. "Eager, even. Because that thing is evil, Jecha! It has to be destroyed!"

"Have I not guided you well since we met? Have I not given you reason enough to trust me?"

"Maybe. But in this you are wrong."

With that, Aragorn gave a brief nod to Halbarad and the Rangers surrounding Jecha and they swiftly stepped forward to efficiently disarm him. Not once had Aragorn believed himself to be in any real danger from the Easterling. He knew that at any time to Rangers would jump in and restrain him. He had hoped to get some sense out of the man he had come to trust but apparently it was not to be and he could not stand to listen to his senseless ramblings, no matter how enlightened they may have sounded, anymore.

"I do not regret this," Jecha said as he was taken by the arms and Sonal was pulled roughly to his feet.

"I pray that one day you will. For your own sake."

Jecha offered the king a small smile but said nothing more. Sonal glared at everyone who dared look him in the eye but also said nothing more. He seemed even more furious than Jecha about the failure of his mission. Aragorn had never realised how intimidating the man could look. Perhaps because he had never once engaged him in conversation – or for that matter dared look him in the eyes; even now he flinched away.

"Are you all right?" Faramir asked of Aragorn as soon as the pair of traitors had been led away. "You're not hurt?"

"No. Not at all. He didn't get that close."

"Good."

With his heart still racing, Aragorn knew he wouldn't get much more rest that night. Adrenaline coursed through his body but he made himself sit down because he found that his legs were trembling.

"I can't believe it," he found himself speaking. "I cannot believe he would betray me."

"I always knew there was something off about him."

"You couldn't possibly have known. No one knew."

Faramir released a rush of breath and joined Aragorn on the ground. "So what now?"

"We go to Mordor, stick with the plan. There is nothing else we can do. I truly believe this, Faramir. It is the right thing."

"I agree, wholeheartedly."

"Then to Mordor shall we go in the morning and be done with all this."

**To Be Continued…**


	82. The Mountain Of Doom

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: OK readers. Here we go. This is the penultimate chapter of The War of Light and Shadow. Hope you enjoy it.**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 82 – The Mountain Of Doom**

The way over the mountains was nowhere near as treacherous as the King of Gondor had been led to believe. Nor was there much chance of them getting lost along the way. The armies of Mordor had trampled out a very satisfactory path through the winding passes good enough for them to follow with ease. No snow or ice blocked their path as Faramir had feared it might. They moved quickly, unhindered, not meeting a single enemy along the way. Only a handful of them had gone on this final mission for peace, at the king's insistence. He did not want a lot of people holding them up or knowing about the Ring. Jecha and Sonal's reactions to it had made him even more cautious than before. Aragorn, of course, led the mission bringing along Eomer and Faramir. The Rangers, Aragorn had left behind, wanting some warriors to remain with the main group of Men just in case of any threat that might yet exist. Only Halbarad of the Rangers accompanied them, insisting that his presence to protect the king might be beneficial given their destination. Aragorn had not had the will to turn him away. Faramir and Eomer had each picked five men from their forces, those who were largely uninjured following the battle and willing to follow their king once more into the unknown.

None of the soldiers accompanying them had been briefed on the real purpose behind this expedition deep into Mordor. Aragorn did not think it prudent to tell more people than necessary of the One Ring's existence or his possession of it and the other commanders agreed wholeheartedly with this. Instead, the men had been told that this was a reconnaissance mission designed solely to determine the state of the Black Lands and how many of the Enemy there were left to take out later. It was a flimsy premise at best, mostly because none of the soldiers believed that the newly crowned King of Gondor would accompany them on such an unremarkable mission.

Still, orders were not to be questioned and they wasted little time wondering what their true purpose in the Black Lands was.

Aragorn set a fast pace for the group and no one seemed inclined to tell him to slow down. No complaints were made as they walked through the night, walking under the curious new light of a bright silver moon.

It took a total of two days to cross the mountains; far swifter than Aragorn had imagined. When they reached the peak of the final path at the beginning of the second day, they paused for the first time to take in their surroundings.

Aragorn didn't know what he had been expecting to see when he first glimpsed Mordor. A wasteland was not it. Perhaps he had thought it to be covered with machines of war, every inch of space utilised by the master of the Shadow to create and supply his armies and rule the lands he had claimed for his own. But it was not so. It was almost completely bare, stripped long ago of all plant life or anything natural that lived. There was no obvious source of water that the Men could see, although Aragorn rationalised that Sauron must have sustained his army somehow. The ground, however, was hard and cracked as though it had been in a constant state of drought for years. The only distant sign of life were the birds flying overhead; crows. Apparently, they could always count on something dead to eat in this part of the world and they flourished where everything else withered.

All around there were tracks beaten into the dry earth where thousands of Orc feet had recently marched. The small party of Men followed the same path the Orcs had stamped out, figuring that it would lead them into the heart of Mordor.

Just as the stories of its location told, they soon came to the plateau and got their first close look at the legendary Mountain of Fire itself. Aragorn had seen it depicted in the murals in Rivendell during his brief stay in that land. It was no longer a raging volcano as the Elves of Rivendell had thought to depict it though. Rather, it remained quiet and dormant, perhaps quietened now by the death of this land's master. Perhaps the entire land mourned the death of its master, just as the rest of Arda celebrated it.

They met no resistance as they made their way along the paths trod by the Orcs, crossing a great and terrible marshland that seemed long ago to have been bridged to make it easier to cross. Nothing would stand in the way of Sauron's war effort. Whereas once Aragorn could have imagined it to be all but impassable, it was now easy going and they covered the distance with remarkable speed, wary of the expanse of open space. The air smelled rank; of death and decay. No one paused to examine their surroundings too carefully.

Occasionally, they would stumble across a corpse on their path. They inspected the first few but after determining that they were Orc or Uruk or Goblin they checked no more. The creatures had probably fallen dead from exhaustion or been murdered by their comrades along the path heading out to war. It didn't matter to Aragorn. They were food for the birds now and nothing more.

At long last, they caught their first sight of the infamous Tower of Barad-dur. It stood tall against the clouded sky but it was dark; no light burned within. It, like the Mountain of Doom, was dormant. At least that was how it looked from the outside. Aragorn could only hope that it was not crawling with the Enemy who sought shelter within.

"It's eerie," commented Eomer as they proceeded towards the Mountain of Doom, passing through towering gates that stood open and unguarded. Aragorn wondered at this. Had Sauron really been so confident that he would leave his entire realm open and unguarded? As always, he was struck by the sheer confidence of the armies of Shadow. "Seeing a land so deserted."

"I'd rather it be deserted than rife with the Enemy," Faramir said back. So far his hand had never strayed away from the hilt of the sword at his side. He did not trust this silence. Faramir's eyes darted around constantly, searching for the next threat hidden in the shadows.

Anduril, however, had not yet been unsheathed. Partly this was because Halbarad had not left Aragorn's side since they had set off from the camp less than a week ago and his sword had been constantly at the ready for any threat from both outside and from within, leaving Aragorn confident that nothing left in this land would get close enough to cause him harm. But more than that, Aragorn felt no direct malevolence left in Mordor. There were traces, of course. Echoes of what evils Mordor used to harbour. But there was no great warning ringing in the back of his mind, cautioning him to be wary of danger and he trusted that instinct just as much now as he always had.

"What do you think, Aragorn?"

Aragorn looked to Eomer, realising that he had been lost in thought whilst looking into the distance at the Mountain of Fire. "Sorry?"

"Where are we headed? Some guidance might be good."

"Right." Turning his eyes from the commander of the Rohirrim back to the Mountain looming non-threateningly in the distance, Aragorn replied, "There."

Following his gaze up, Eomer questioned, "The Mountain?"

"Yes."

"What's up there?"

"I have no idea. I just know that that is where we must go."

Eomer sighed softly. He pondered to himself that Aragorn's vagaries had become rather similar to those adopted by his guardian and it was hard not to be irritated by it. Still, he gathered his patience and nodded. "Very well. To the Mountain we will go and hope that things become clearer."

The paths around the plateau were well defined and they had a clear way towards the dormant mountain. Even so, they moved quickly and with the same caution as before.

"What was that?" Faramir asked in a brisk whisper, snapping around to the sound of a high cackle of laughter coming from the distance.

"Maybe we are not alone, after all," Halbarad suggested unhelpfully.

Eomer gestured them forwards, having spotted another path branching off from the main. "Look here." The path ran straight until it hit an iron grate in the side of a slight hill. "A prison?" he suggested in a whisper. The thought was not a pleasant one.

"What would the Dark Lord wish to imprison?" the Ranger asked in an equally quiet voice, acutely aware that even now they could be being observed.

"I dread to think. But it is worth investigating, don't you think? Aragorn?" Eomer looked around when he received no response from the king. "Aragorn?" He spotted the king already a way ahead of them, not having stopped when the others did. Apparently his mind was set. "Damn! Faramir, take a couple of men with you and investigate around. If there are any survivors…well, either kill them if they are allied to the Shadow or liberate them if they are on our side."

Faramir nodded in agreement but then asked seriously, "Prisoners of war?"

This was something that they had not yet discussed. Whether, should they find any of the Enemy within the Black Lands alive and who surrendered to them, they should take them prisoner and march them back to Gondor to face the consequences of their allegiances. After all, it was not just Orcs and monsters allied to Sauron. There were Men too. Haradhrim, Easterlings and many more besides.

Eomer thought upon it for a moment, his eyes searching out Aragorn ever gaining more distance on them. It should be the king's decision. But the king had other things on his mind, reasoned Eomer. He turned back to the Gondorian man and answered in a cold, hard voice, "No."

"Very well." It seemed that Faramir was in no mood to quibble. Any Enemy spotted would be killed on site. Perhaps it was not a policy that Aragorn would agree with but a decision had to be made and the Men all seemed to be in agreement this time.

They split up then. Faramir took four men with him to investigate the suspected dungeon whilst Halbarad, Eomer and the remaining soldiers hurried to catch up with Aragorn.

At least, Eomer thought with a glimmer of hope, Aragorn knew where he was headed now. He seemed determined. That had to count for something.

The look of determination on the king's face offered Eomer further hope that perhaps this mission was not folly as he had first thought. He could not help but notice the strain in the man's grey eyes, the frown of concentration as he followed a path he did not know, nor the fact that Aragorn's hand rested over the his breast where the Ring of Power still hung on its chain around his neck.

"We head for the Mountain, my Lord, but what of when we reach it?" asked Halbarad, his eyes remaining wary and alert for any danger. Complacency would not be the reason for their downfall here, of that he was determined.

Aragorn, however, made no answer. His own gaze was fixed ahead, so much so that on occasion he stumbled on the uneven surface of the path. His loyal companions were there to steady him though.

Another high-pitched scream emanated from somewhere in the distance and this time Eomer was certain that it belonged to the Orcs. "Be on your guard. We are not alone." He was very much aware that they were trespassers and that the Orcs would not have been ambivalent towards the Human's role in the fall of their lord and master. Should they come across the scourge of Mordor, Eomer doubted very much that they would be left to their own devices. Leaderless, the Orcs were still a dangerous threat.

"I know this is right," murmured Aragorn to himself, seemingly oblivious to any outside threat.

He led them up a steep slope, the rock loose and slippery, no longer flattened by the feet of a great many Orcs. It seemed no one came up this way. The climb was a struggle and the Men found that the way was treacherous. Every so often they would slip, sending a small landslide of dusty red rock pouring down. The noise was troubling to Halbarad; should anything hear it they would be drawn to this very spot and take out their revenge on the king who had devastated their realm.

Aragorn persisted though. Every time he slipped down, he pulled himself back up, scrabbling against the rocks, using his hands to steady himself even as his feet scrabbled for a firm hold.

"You stay behind," Eomer finally instructed the other guards who were following them. It seemed ridiculous to make them all undertake the chore of climbing the path given the danger involved. "Guard this path. If any of the Enemy comes close, kill it without hesitation."

Relieved to have been excused the exhausting, frustrating task, the soldiers fell behind, returning to the base of the mountain and positioning themselves around the bottom of the hill, wafting clouds of thick dust away from their faces as their leaders climbed. Killing Orcs was a far better use of their skills they thought.

By the time they reached the top of the hill, Aragorn, Eomer and Halbarad were soaked through with sweat at the sheer effort it was taking. The heat was almost unbearable even though the thick clouds that had dissipated from the skies over the rest of Arda remained blocking out the sun from Mordor. Still, the Men were determined. They would not be put off by rough terrain and heat.

Reaching the top by practically throwing himself to the ground and crawling the final way up, Aragorn paused a moment to gather his breath and strength. He felt the Ring tugging against his mind, warning him against his chosen course of action but he ignored it; he would not be dissuaded. He knew this was right.

Getting to his feet, he ignored Eomer and Halbarad still struggling up behind him and stumbled towards the opening in the craggy rock.

Even though the Mountain of Fire remained dormant, it was stiflingly hot as he stepped through the huge crevice torn into the rock but he pushed onwards heading for the orange glow that he knew led to the very centre of the mountain. He emerged after a short walk on to a precipice jutting out over a river of molten rock flowing fast and churning around in the basin of the mountain. Coming to a halt near the edge, he attempted to peer over to see the magnificent flow beneath him, but when he got too close he felt almost unbearable heat sear his face and took a quick step backwards.

He knew that this was where, decades before, his ancestor Isildur had stood. It felt strange walking in those same footsteps, being faced with the same decision. He even carried Isildur's sword at his side. Now that he was here, he remembered all he had been told about his ancestor, how Isildur had chosen so wrongly, had led all of Middle Earth to terrible war and suffering. He was reminded that that same blood, that very same weakness, ran in his veins. Closing his eyes against the hot orange glow, Aragorn reached beneath his shirt and pulled out the Ring. Immediately, as if it sensed the peril it was so close to, he felt the Ring pull insistently on his mind, warning him against doing what he intended. It was still a powerful thing despite the loss of its master and he could not so easily dispel its warnings. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, making his head spin.

What if Jecha and Sonal had been right and the Ring could be used for good? Given that Middle Earth, whilst now free from tyranny, was still in a state of utter desolation, such a powerful object could be immensely useful to his efforts of rebuilding it. Was he being short-sighted in letting it go, of throwing back to where it came from? He could well be condemning his people to a harder life than was necessary because of his fear. And what exactly was that fear based upon? It was just a tool now. Sauron was gone for good. He was not coming back. Perhaps once his essence had lived within the Ring but he was dead by the king's own hand. He had seen him fall. Just because the Ring had been forged by him didn't mean that it was intrinsically evil. He could use it for good. He was strong enough to do so. After all, he had resisted the Ring long enough already. It might take some effort but he could learn to control it, to bend its power to his will.

Suddenly, all of Aragorn's previously-held certainty deserted him. There was too much at stake to rush into a decision and he found himself suspended in a strange kind of limbo, the Ring clasped tight in his hand.

He realised then that he didn't want to let it go. He _wanted_ to keep it. It felt like it had become a part of him, attached to his mind and to be rid of it would break him too. He could not risk that. Too many people were back home depending on him to be a good, strong king. Surely he could only be that with help. Legolas had deserted him, left him alone when he needed guidance the most. He had to have something to aid him. The Ring seemed a natural substitute.

And yet, even as he thought this, somewhere in his mind, he knew that the Ring must be destroyed. It was evil. It could never be harnessed for good. He knew this. And yet the Ring would not let him go.

Aragorn cried out in despair at his conflicting thoughts. This should have been easy. He knew what was right. He had known it all along. Why now was he questioning himself?

"Aragorn?"

He spun around at the sound of Eomer's voice. The man was staring at him expectantly. Clearly, he had seen that the Ring remained in Aragorn's hand and was confused. Inexplicably, anger raced through Aragorn's heart at the man's expression. How dare Eomer judge him? What did he know about the pressures of being a king? He ran his fingers around the band of gold, feeling the soothing heat.

"Aragorn? Why do you hesitate?"

"What business is it of yours?" snapped Aragorn immediately and with such fury that he saw Eomer physically recoil as though he had been struck. Guilt stabbed at the king's heart then. Eomer meant well, he reminded himself. He was a friend and confidante. He could be trusted. More calmly this time, Aragorn called out his doubts, "What if Jecha was right and I am destroying a great gift? Can I risk that?"

Eomer was already shaking his head and dared to take a step closer. "No, Aragorn. It is not a gift. That thing is a curse. You know this already; you feel it in your heart." He came closer still, tentative for he could sense the change in the young king even though he didn't understand it. "You have said yourself that this is the right thing to do. Throw it into the fire, Aragorn, and be rid of it at last."

In his heart, Aragorn did know that Eomer was right. And yet, the doubt nagged at him, tempting him.

"Yes," he breathed to himself. "It's the right thing."

"It is," agreed Eomer, about to take another step forward but hesitating when he noted how close to the edge Aragorn had drifted. One misstep and the king would fall to his death.

Aragorn did not seem bothered by this, however. In fact, he seemed worryingly oblivious to all else around him.

"Yes," the king repeated with more conviction this time. "It is…the right thing."

Legolas had worked hard for this very moment, he thought as he sought to block out the call of the Shadow that screamed loud and clear in his mind. His father had entrusted him with this monumental task, and however much he despised Arathorn for this, he knew that he had to respect that kind of faith his father had in him.

Thinking on the two greatest influences in his life, he turned slowly on the spot, finding that the toe of his boot almost hung over the edge of the precipice, the thin leather growing almost unbearably hot. His next action took effort that almost completely overwhelmed him. Holding the Ring out over the edge and ignoring its continued desperate call in his mind grow even more intense until the thudding almost drowned out all conscious thought, he opened his fist and watched with wide eyes filled with tears as the small band of gold, now glowing in the light of the fires of Mordor with flowing script that covered the outside of the metal, fell away from him to immediately be submerged in the roiling lava below.

Heat pounded up at him and for the first time Aragorn actually noticed the pain and stumbled backwards, away from the jagged edge, for fear of falling into the heart of the volcano.

It hit him them. It was gone.

The relief that swept over him was indescribable. It was as though all of his doubts and troubles that had shadowed his mind since first walking the road from Mirkwood with Legolas simply flew from him and he was free at last from the great burden he had been bequeathed. A moment later, he felt a wave of love wash over him; then pride as he imagined what Legolas would say to him about this final decision.

So great was the feeling of relief at being rid of the Ring that Aragorn's knees buckled and he found himself kneeling on the hot ground inside the Mountain of Doom. His head bowed to hide the tears that streamed down his face and his shoulders shook with sobs of unrestrained emotion.

At long last, his war was over.

**OIOI**

Eomer stood back respectfully for a moment, watching the king for signs of movement as he crouched on the ground, hunched over and shaking. However, it seemed that the king would remain on the ground until something prompted him to move. After a while, Halbarad, who had fallen slightly behind them on the way up the incline, joined him and went to rush forward upon seeing the king in such a state but Eomer held him back. Aragorn needed a moment with his thoughts, to come to terms with what he had just done.

However, they could not delay forever. Eomer's mind remained on the ominous sounds they had heard upon entering the Black Lands, which Faramir and his small company were now investigating. They were not alone here in Mordor and if they lingered overly long, he feared they might be discovered and he did not want to do battle on enemy territory.

Quietly, the Rohan man stepped forward and stood behind Aragorn, uncertain of how to proceed given what he had just witnessed. The Ring of Power, the last trace of Sauron's spirit here on Middle Earth had just been destroyed and it had clearly cost Aragorn to make that choice.

"Aragorn, we should leave now." He received no response from the king so he laid his hand upon the trembling shoulder. "Danger yet lurks nearby. We must return to Gondor."

Finally, Aragorn raised his head. So lost had he been in his own misery and celebration that he had forgotten that he was not alone here within the Mountain of Doom. Twisting so that he could look up at Eomer, he offered a weak smile and went to stand up. Eomer aided him, taking his arm.

"Are you all right?" the Rohan man asked once his king was standing.

"Let's just get back to Gondor."

Eomer nodded curtly, despite the fact that Aragorn had skirted around answering his question, such was his relief to be leaving the Black Lands at last. Yet he knew that this would not be their last journey to this cursed part of the world. If the Enemy yet lingered here then at some point they would have to be sought out and destroyed lest they rise up again. A repeat of what had happened to Middle Earth before was not an option. A fresh uprising would be devastating. There was much work yet to be done before the race of Men could fully declare peace. But for now, they could leave this land and all its cursed inhabitants and that brought Eomer immeasurable comfort.

They left the mountain the way they had come and made their way down the slope. It was far easier going down than it had been going up and it took them only a few minutes before they were safely on solid ground and again surrounded by their small contingent of soldiers. Together, they followed the path back. Aragorn left it to the others to lead this time. Strangely, although he had known with absolute certainty which way to go to get to the Mountain, he had no recollection of walking these paths.

Faramir was waiting them outside the 'dungeon' entrance where they had left him. He and his guards had picked up no innocent beings following their search but their swords showed signs of recent battle with the black-blooded enemy.

"Any survivors?" Eomer asked, nodding to the grated dungeon entrance when they met up.

Faramir shook his head sadly. "But plenty of bodies. The state of that place-"

"A prison?"

"Creatures in chains." He grimaced at the memory of the rotten corpses he and his men had encountered; some free, most chained to the walls and floor. Not one of those wretched beings had been living by the time Faramir reached them and he was secretly glad for it. Evidence of cannibalism had been obvious and their suffering clearly great. It seemed that they had lingered for many years in the darkness and filth of Mordor's prisons. Faramir thought that death must have been a relief for them. "All dead now though. Slaughtered by the looks of it."

"Sauron?"

"No idea. I didn't stick around long enough to examine each of them."

"Are they…Human?"

Faramir's eyes looked to Aragorn but it seemed the man was lost in his own thoughts and not listening. Nevertheless, he whispered his answer, "Elves, I think."

"What?" frowned Eomer, his eyes looking to the barred opening in the rock.

"Sauron's hosts," Aragorn interrupted coldly, his voice empty. Apparently, he had not been as oblivious to their conversation as he appeared to be at first.

"Of course," Faramir sighed with grim realisation, remembering the fair face of the Elf Sauron had possessed on the battlefield. What a terribly cruel way of ravaging a soul. "I am sorry, Aragorn. They were not alive. None of them. There was nothing we could do."

The king nodded slowly, his eyes gazing towards the grated entrance and filled with pain. "I am sorry also. We were too late for them."

Eomer told them, "He probably had them killed before he rode into battle. Arrogance. He knew he would win; there would be no need for another host once he possessed the Ring for himself."

Aragorn's features hardened at this. "He was wrong."

They all took some small amount of consolation in this. Sauron had not won. His army had fallen or ran and he himself had been destroyed on the field of battle.

"What should we do with it?" Faramir asked of him, nodding towards the grate.

The thought of the innocent souls tormented until the end of their lives by the Shadow turned Aragorn's stomach. He thought of Legolas, of the dream in which he had seen his guardian under the control of Sauron and tortured to near death in just such a prison. This was how he might have ended his life had Sauron beaten them in the war. This was how Legolas' father, Thranduil, Sauron's unfortunate puppet spent his final days of freedom, locked beneath the earth in squalor and despair. The thought was unbearable. He thought of what Legolas would have suffered had he known of his father's ending.

"Leave them." It nearly broke his heart to say. He wanted to do something for those poor people, to give them one last mercy, but there was nothing he could do for them anymore. He was also acutely aware that even though the war had been won, they were still well within enemy territory. They had lingered too long already. "Their suffering has ended. They are at peace now."

It hurt all of them to simply walk away from what remained of the prisoners of the Black Lands. They knew that perhaps there had once been more innocents within the boundaries of Mordor but they could not find them. They were too few to search the entire land and it had become obvious that Orcs and perhaps even Uruk-hai were nearby; if they were close then they would have been alerted by now to the presence of outsiders in their territory. The only course to take now was escape. They owed that to those who yet survived, on their way to Gondor where the race of Men belonged.

**OIOI**

Eager to put as much distance as they could between themselves and Mordor, the small party of Men hurried away from the Black Lands with all haste, continuing as fast as they could manage until dusk started to dim their view of the path ahead. They halted in the mountains that night, stopping to rest for the first time since they had set out. With no fear of being discovered, convinced as they were that the creatures still roaming the lands had better things to worry about given that their numbers were suddenly leaderless, Aragorn ordered that they start a fire for warmth.

Despite all they had seen within Mordor, the mood was surprisingly light as they gathered around the fire, huddled close to the warmth and light. They ate sparingly of their rations but sipped with delight at the Ranger's foul-tasting but reassuringly potent alcohol, gifted to them by Kalub before they had separated, which only served to lighten the atmosphere even further.

"I think our young king has exhausted himself," chuckled Faramir, nodding to the others in the direction of Aragorn.

Eomer laughed softly, reaching over to pull the blanket up further over the man, who had fallen sound asleep where he had laid out on the ground earlier. "I should say."

"Personally, I am relieved that thing is gone for good. It chilled me, knowing such evil was amongst us. How he managed to bear it for so long, I don't know," said Halbarad, taking another swig from the flask and wincing as the liquor burned his throat.

"It was a little uncertain there for a moment, you know. Even though I was not connected to that Ring in any way, I still felt its pull, its desire not to be abandoned."

"Desire?" Faramir repeated in disbelief, shaking his head. "I can't get used to that. All the evil things in this world, we have spent decades trying to avoid and Aragorn brought the worst of all amongst us. It doesn't seem right." He shuddered dramatically before wrapping his arms around himself to ward off the chill of the night. "Still, it's over now. Aragorn bested the Dark Lord, things can return to normal."

"Normal," scoffed Eomer. "What is that? Do you remember a time when we weren't at war? There are going to be a great many people out there now without direction or purpose."

"I'm going to be one of them," conceded Halbarad, his grey eyes flitting in the direction of the king almost with sadness that their friendship might not endure as he had first wished upon coming to Minas Tirith. "But such is our life. If patrolling the lands to keep safe the people of a world in peace is what must be done then the Rangers will rise to the challenge."

"That challenge may belong to all free Men." Eomer looked at each in turn. "The war may be won and Sauron destroyed but things are not over yet. There will be much to do upon our return to Minas Tirith. Rebuilding the city, making homes for those who are lost. And there will be battles yet to fight. The filth of Mordor will not simply vanish. Every last bit of Shadow must be washed away from this earth. We will be occupied for many years yet before we have true peace."

Faramir sighed deeply and lowered his head in a weary gesture. "That's something to look forward to then."

"Yes. But first, we return home to Minas Tirith."

"Home?" Faramir echoed softly. "Never thought I'd hear you call Gondor 'home'."

"I would not have. But it feels right now. Somehow, I know that my place lies with the king in Minas Tirith. For as long as he may need me."

Silence followed then, deep and thoughtful. Given that the end of everything they had ever known had come upon them, it was all but impossible for any Man not to think of the future. There were so many options open to them now. Eomer had no doubt that some of his people would wish to return to Edoras and some of the Rangers would surely want to return to Bree, at least for a time until they knew for certain where they wanted to spend the remainder of their lives. United under a single banner and in the knowledge that they had defeated the Dark Lord of Shadow though, he had no doubt that Mankind was changed for good and things could not go back to how they had once been. Nor would he wish them to. They had not fought so long and hard simply for nothing to change.

For now though, Eomer knew that most of those who had fought under the banner of the king would happily settle in Gondor. It would be a whole new chapter and one that he had to confess he was looking forward to.

After he had left Edoras so long ago, he had longed to return there. It was and always had been his home. But once he had left it, once he had seen the splendour of the White City and felt that it too he could call home, he realised that he had no desire at all to return to his own haunted land. A new start was what he needed and he was convinced that he would find it in Gondor.

**OIOI**

Daylight, unusually bright and brilliant, disturbed Aragorn from his sleep. He cracked his eyes open a little, aware of the sound of voices around him, but closed them quickly again. The world was still bright and he was not used to it yet. Better to languish in the wondrous, comforting darkness for as long as possible, especially when his head pounded and his thoughts were so fuzzy.

The voices still invaded his mind though; even if he could shut the light out, he couldn't block out the noise. Sighing heavily, he pulled up his blanket further although he was no longer chilled as he had been during the night. In fact, the sunlight beaming down on him was wonderfully warm.

"Ah, you are awake at last, I see," a voice proclaimed cheerfully and Aragorn knew that it must be addressing him.

Somewhat irritated that he had been woken from the first decent night's sleep he had had in months, Aragorn threw back the blanket protecting him from the outside world and glared up at Eomer.

"Good morning," grinned Eomer.

"Is it?" mumbled the king grumpily. He sat up, stretching out his arms, noting the others also watching him with thin smiles on their lips. "What?" he snapped, somewhat irritably and they all moved away. "What time is it? Past dawn?"

"Way past. It approaches midday already," Eomer answered him, braced for the tirade he knew would follow. The night before, they had discussed leaving their modest camp at dawn so they could make the most of the daylight.

"Midday? Why did you leave me sleeping so long?"

"It's not like we had a choice."

"What?"

"Well," Eomer grinned at him, "Halbarad tried to wake you but you mumbled a threat at him - something about a sword in his chest."

"Oh." Aragorn looked in Halbarad's direction but the Ranger was smiling gently as he packed his bag up. "Sorry."

Turning towards him, Halbarad performed a mock bow in his direction, the grin still lighting his face. Aragorn couldn't help but smile himself for he knew that his friends were teasing him. His bad mood was already disappearing rapidly. He threw his blanket all the way off and climbed to his feet. Most of the weariness from the day before had disappeared and he was certainly a lot more relaxed. Annoyed though he may have been that his friends had ignored his orders of the night before, his mind was clear for the first time in years and he was pleased to have the company of people he liked and respected. They had made this whole thing so much easier to bear and he was grateful for that.

"It looked like you needed the rest anyway. You slept soundly all night long, not waking even once. All right, let's get going, so long as you're feeling up to it," Eomer told the others, still slightly concerned about the king.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Aragorn asked in demand.

Eomer shrugged, "Just checking that you were feeling all right. It was a strange day yesterday."

"Strange is one way to describe it," murmured the king as he crouched to roll up his blanket and pack it neatly away in his travel bag ready for the next time they stopped.

They were back on the path down the mountain within minutes and Aragorn once again felt the lightness of his step coming back, something he had not felt since his childhood. Every step brought him closer to his home and he was eager to return, even though he knew that much responsibility awaited him there. But at least he had a vague notion of what to do next and he was surrounded by people who wanted to help him; that brought him much comfort.

**OIOI**

"You've been very quiet."

"I'm sorry," Aragorn startled from his thoughts.

"On the journey home, you have been unusually quiet so far. It's not like you."

"I'm fine, Eomer."

"No doubt." Despite the words, green eyes stared unflinchingly at the king, waiting for him to elaborate.

"I've just been thinking."

"About anything in particular?"

Aragorn shook his head and offered the commander of the Rohirrim a weak smile, hoping that it would assuage any concerns his friend had over him. He knew that in the past few days since they had left Mordor he had been quiet but he had been so lost in his own thoughts, of the past and the future, that he had not even thought of what his companions may think of his introspection.

"Look there," called Faramir from where he walked ahead of them and everyone's attention was drawn forwards.

Aragorn's breath caught in his throat when he saw what had caught Faramir's eye. They were all brought to a stop by the sight, so arresting it was. In the distance stood the White City of Minas Tirith, burning brilliant white in the dazzling sunlight. Shading their eyes against the glare, they stood for a moment and admired their city, taken from the dark clutches of the Lord Sauron himself, destined to be made wondrous once more. When last they had made this trip from the opposite direction, their vision of the city had been quite different. It had been overrun with the filth of Mordor. They had been so intent on getting out of Osgiliath alive that they had given the White City little thought and certainly not paused to admire its aesthetics of the imposing buildings. Of course, Aragorn thought that it had probably looked dramatically different anyway when last they had looked upon it. It had not been bathed in sunlight then, not glowed almost mystically beneath the golden rays.

Now, it was breath-taking.

"Home at last," breathed Faramir aloud, attempting nonchalance but failing somewhat. Even though he had lived in the shadow of this city all his life, it had amazed him too, how beautiful it looked. Nevertheless, he gathered his wits and laughed out loud and clasped Aragorn's and Eomer's shoulders tightly, leaning in close to those he considered now to be good friends.

Finally finding his voice, Eomer said, "Well, that is a sight I never thought I would see."

"Gondor has been awaiting this day for many long years," Faramir continued as he guided them onwards. "And now, finally, our patience has paid off and what we have always hoped for has come to pass. It is all yours now, Aragorn, to do with as you will."

Swallowing thickly at the thought, Aragorn corrected, "Ours. Minas Tirith belongs to all Men."

"It will be a challenge, you know." Eomer gazed out over the plains towards the splendour of Minas Tirith, a sight he thought would never cease to fill him with awe. "There will be a great many people looking to you for guidance." He smiled towards Aragorn, whose grey eyes were also transfixed upon the shining white city, blazing brilliantly ahead of them. "Intimidated?"

Aragorn smiled across at his old friend, the first genuine smile he had managed in months. "No. I would like to think that the worst is over."

"Of course it is," exclaimed Faramir in a ringing voice filled with excitement. "He defeated the Lord of Darkness and liberated all of Humankind. Anything else after that is sure to be a breeze."

They all laughed lightly and carried on towards their reclaimed city, their steps as light on the ground as their hearts felt.

**To Be Continued…**


	83. The Return Of The King

**The War of Light and Shadow**

**By Freddie23**

**OIOIOIOI**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.**

**A/N: OK, here it is. The final chapter. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story over 82 chapters and also to all readers who have added it/me to their Alerts/Favourites lists.**

**I hope you enjoy this last chapter…**

**OIOIOIOIOIOI**

**Chapter 83 – The Return Of The King**

"It is almost hard to believe, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"How much things have changed." Aragorn stretched out luxuriously before the hearth, basking in the warmth of the flames, determined to make the most of the restful feeling bringing him such peace. "I never would have thought change even possible all those years ago when I wandered the wilderness, witness to such terrible destruction and depravity."

"Well, I suppose it had to change in the end. Nothing can stay the same forever."

He smiled and flipped agilely onto his front, chin cupped in his hands so that he could gaze at the young woman laid beside him upon the warm, soft fur in their private rooms. "I fervently hope that is not true," he said with a glowing grin.

Smiling back with equal joy, Eowyn rolled onto her side. "Well, maybe some things can stay constant." She reached out her hand and combed long fingers through his dark, now neatly styled hair. It all seemed so different to them both. Everything had changed so much since the ending of the War, including the king himself. And she was honoured that she had been present to witness it, that she had been invited with open arms into his world, his life. It was more than she could ever have hoped for and she, like him, prayed that it would endure.

Aragorn had fairly blossomed since the ending of the War and the destruction of the One Ring, the last remnant of Sauron on Middle Earth. She had been doubtful at first, just as he had doubted himself in those first months after their return to the White City and its people. He had seemed so shy, unsure of himself as a king and leader in the beginning and she had felt bad for him as he had stumbled through the motions, even as he was aided by her brother and others close to him. Those first steps into his leadership had been the hardest though. After those initial trials had been conquered then everything seemed to simply fall into place. He gained confidence with every small victory in his lands and amongst the people of Gondor. The rebuilding of the houses by a labouring people who wanted Minas Tirith to return to what it had once been just as much as their king did had been their first task and its great success had offered him a small boost of confidence, making future tasks seem a little more achievable. Throughout, Aragorn was tireless and people loved him all the more for his devotion to them.

For someone who had only ever known darkness and war, Eowyn mused, Aragorn had turned into a great ruler, bettering even those who had come before him, and a wonderful man.

The affection she felt for him had come on so gradually that she even now found it impossible to pinpoint the exact moment sisterly admiration had evolved into love. It had come as such a surprise to her when finally it hit one day as they were working together in one of the city's gardens planting vegetable seeds and enjoying the warmth of the sun on their backs. Aragorn had never been afraid of getting his hands dirty along with the rest of his people – one more reason said people adored him as their ruler. She had watched him in a rare moment of relaxation, when he was carefree and laughing at some joke Halbarad had cracked everyone up with. He had been free and open before her for the first time since they had met. The moment had literally taken her breath away and she had quickly excused herself under the pretence that she should go fetch them all a drink before they got too hot under the blazing summer sun. Eomer had shot her a peculiar look but thankfully no one seemed to have noticed the reason for her abrupt leaving.

After that day, she had been more certain of her feelings for him.

Avoiding him wasn't going to work. They were close friends, both her and her brother and the other commanders alike. After everything they had been through together, they were bound by love and loyalty and friendship unlike anything any had ever experienced before. Were she to suddenly stop enjoying their company and distance herself from the king then they would grow suspicious and no matter what her feelings may have been or how she suffered because of them, she did not want to lose Aragorn's friendship. She resolved to put her feelings out of her mind, to carry on as before. She owed that much to her king.

However, somehow, she had no idea how exactly, he had known of her affections.

Perhaps, she mused later, he had seen something in her eyes because she was fairly sure that she had done a rather poor job of hiding the truth in her heart. However he had done it, he had seen through her ruse after barely a month of her self-discovery. She knew he knew only when their eyes met over dinner one night in the dining halls of Minas Tirith. They had been speaking of their next mission out into the wastelands around Gondor. It was set to be the first exploratory mission into the outside world since the men had returned to their ancestral home. There had been an air of excitement and expectation and also fear in the air and it had been potent enough that Eowyn had let her guard down as they talked of the danger and possibilities. He had met her eyes and the truth had been shining in them, unguarded. She had stared into liquid grey and watched as joy gave way to surprise and then understanding and finally a kind of peace. Mercifully, no one else had been aware of that first connection and he had obviously not disclosed it even to his closest friends. The next day had been the first close contact she had had with him since her newly awakened feelings. It was the day he was to leave the city for the first time since their returning. She had kissed his cheek and wished him luck on his mission out of Minas Tirith, all the time silently praying that he return safely so that she may kiss his cheek again.

Upon his return two months later she had been so overwhelmed with joy that he had come back unharmed that she had without thought flung herself into his arms and kissed him once more, this time with such ferocity that she shocked even herself. If he had been surprised by this sudden display of affection then he had not shown it. He had held her back tightly and returned her kiss, oblivious it seemed to the gawping of her brother and their friends behind them.

To say that Eomer had been surprised at the relationship that had developed between them would have been an understatement. At first she thought that perhaps he would be unhappy with her, or with Aragorn, for the growing of their affections for each other. But the commander of the Rohirrim seemed remarkably at peace with it once he had gotten over his initial shock at the idea. She didn't know whether words had been exchanged between the two men at some point after that first day, neither had disclosed to her if they had, but Eomer's step had been lighter soon after and he did not look upon Aragorn with the contempt Eowyn had expected to see from her protective brother.

Their love had blossomed rapidly after that and so too had the king. With each passing summer he had grown more confident in himself, in his abilities to run his kingdom and deal with the problems that arose. And she loved him more with every hurdle he overcame. Every victory left her proud beyond words.

When an envoy from Harad came to Gondor asking to be included within the Reunited Kingdoms of Men and Aragorn had welcomed the previously fierce race loyal to Sauron with open arms and with them had forged an agreement of peace, she had been at his side, watching proudly as he gained their trust and their word of loyalty to his throne. Habitable Gondor grew steadily in size and so the Men expanded beyond the White City. They ventured back into the once besieged outlying city of Osgiliath and started rebuilding it just as they had Minas Tirith. Aragorn had toiled day and night to make the city ready and had lived within its borders to assure the people moving there that it was safe to occupy again.

He was a busy man, she knew, and always would be so long as he reigned. He was King of Gondor, the dominant kingdom on Arda. Never would he give up the honour he and so many others fought so hard to gain, not for anything, even love. There had been times, after weeks apart, that their relationship had grown difficult. But she loved him, that could not be doubted. No matter how long he was away, how much of his time he devoted to his land and the people in it, she loved him and stood beside him for she knew this was her place; as a queen to him and his people.

"What are you thinking about?" his soft voice interrupted her thoughts of the past years and she looked up to find his smiling face watching her, grey eyes seeming to look right through her.

Her hand stroked his rugged cheek, much filled out since they had first met at Helm's Deep thanks to proper food and rest he had once been deprived of, and she traced the smile on his lips with her fingertips. She liked his smile; soft and genuine. "I was thinking of us."

His grin widened and he took her hand to encompass it within his own. "Happy thoughts then."

"Yes. Happy."

Suddenly grey eyes turned more serious. How did he always know, she wondered, when something was on her mind? Was she really so transparent around him?

"What is it?" he asked again, more seriously this time.

"You will be going away again soon." It was what she had been fearing for months. He had announced it before the council just a couple of days ago and so far her nights had been sleepless with worry about his latest venture beyond the borders of the White City.

As if berating himself for not having guessed her troubles, he lowered his eyes from hers and sighed. Perhaps he had expected this after all. "Eowyn." His voice was soft, filled with regret and pain and it made her wish she hadn't spoken at all. "You know why I must go."

"I know," she nodded, shifting up so that she was sat cross-legged before him on the carpet of furs.

"Too long have we delayed going into Mordor. We can wait no longer."

She knew that what he said was right. Long had the council been discussing their journey back into the Black Lands once occupied by the Dark Lord. It was essential to determining that their efforts had been effective in keeping back the Darkness. They had not gone anywhere near the land of Sauron since the end of the War and Aragorn and his fellow commanders were getting edgy to know that that land remained dormant. If any Orc activity out of the norm was detected then they would return to Gondor and take their army back with them to eradicate it. No one wanted an uprising of the Shadow, even if it only consisted of Orcs.

"Eowyn, you know all this."

Tears filled her eyes but she blinked them back. He had been in danger before and no doubt would be again. She could not fall apart every time he ventured out of the boundaries of Gondor. As a king, he was remarkably hands-on. There would be no changing him in that regard. Nor would she seek to. He did what he did for the good of Gondor and she loved him for that. It was just hard to remember that when she was sick with worry.

"I know, Aragorn. But I just-I wish you didn't have to go to that place at all."

"Believe me, so do I. But I cannot ask others to do that which I am not willing to do myself."

She smiled at this. "It is one of the things I love about you – your fairness to all. But I am still entitled to worry, am I not?"

"Always. I will be fine, Eowyn. It will take less than a month to complete this task and then I will return to Minas Tirith and to you."

"And then maybe go back into battle."

"Whatever it takes so that the forces of Shadow will never rise again."

Nodding, Eowyn took his hands in hers and squeezed tightly. She could not deter him, she knew, and it would be foolish to try. Besides, he was surrounded by good people. Halbarad would look after him. The Ranger rarely left his side and would protect his king no matter what. Appointed captain of the king's personal guard, he had proven himself a loyal and devoted subject and she trusted him implicitly with the life of her love. And Eomer ventured out with him wherever he went – they would look out for each other. It was a close-knit group they had formed. Aragorn, Eomer, Faramir, Halbarad and Gimli the Dwarf had grown closer with each passing year and it brought her great comfort – and she knew it brought him strength as well – to know that he was being looked out for, even when he tried to convince those around him that he didn't need it.

Changing the subject, she asked in a still cautious voice, "Will you go to him before you leave?"

In an instant, as he was prone to do, his entire demeanour changed at the simple question. Gone was the softness of his eyes and the faint trace of a smile on his lips. Instead, sadness filled his grey orbs and his body stiffened as though readying itself for the fight he knew was coming – not just with Eowyn but also with himself.

Releasing her hand, he climbed first to his knees and then to his feet. The moment of peace was broken; he had made that quite clear but she did not regret breaking it. This was a fight that they had had several times and it always went the same way. She would suggest it, he would go quiet and thoughtful and refuse without any hope of being talked around. Things would be tense between them for a while and then return to normal – until the next time should brought it up.

"It is the five year anniversary tomorrow."

He did not need reminding. It was all he had thought about all day. All week it had been bothering him, as it did every year.

"You think I don't know that?" he snapped at her but immediately his look of anger was replaced by one of contrition.

Rising to her feet, she moved towards him slowly, as though approaching a skittish animal for that was how he looked in that moment. "Aragorn, I am sorry. You know that it was not my intention to upset you."

"I am not upset. I just-Do we really have to do this every year?"

"We wouldn't have to if you just went to him."

"Eowyn," he sighed, rubbing at his eyes as though he was tired out by this conversation. Every single year, the same exact argument over the same thing. And it was beginning to grate on him. He got it not just from Eowyn anymore but from Gimli and Eomer too. Even Halbarad, who had always in his presence been quiet and respectful, was beginning to broach the subject with him. It was infuriating when all he wanted to do was forget the pain that ever lingered in his heart. "Please."

"You know that he would want it, Aragorn."

"No, he would not."

"But-"

"If he thought that I was wallowing in-Legolas would not have wanted this for me, Eowyn; I know he would not. In fact, I think he would have been furious if he thought I had wasted one moment of my time…grieving over him."

The way his voice hitched made her chest ache with his pain but she pressed on, stepping closer to him and taking his arm. Gone was the calm, relaxed Aragorn enjoying a quiet evening with his partner. Now he was the king, whose command was law and who would not be swayed. And yet, she, as ever, felt compelled to keep trying because she knew he needed her to.

"You think? What do you suppose he would say if he knew that every moment of your time was spent thinking upon him and at the same time denying yourself the time you need to grieve? I think of that he would be annoyed."

"You know nothing of this, Eowyn."

"I know that you miss him and I know that that is all right. He would not be disappointed in you for that. And I know that he would want you to visit him." She sighed softly to herself, partly out of frustration. "I don't understand you. The crypts are close enough, it would not take a whole lot of your time. Why do you deny yourself this, why trouble yourself so when all around you people are willing you to forgive yourself?"

"Because I can't, Eowyn!" he yelled at her, making her startle. Seldom did he raise his voice, especially to her. She was not used to it. "I will discuss this no more."

That had never happened before, she thought when the door slammed after Aragorn. Normally, he skulked off in silence, walking around the city until his anger had waned and when he returned they spoke no more of Legolas and things settled down. He had never stormed out on her with such violence before.

**OIOI**

He detested the dark crypts beneath the city. Every time he was forced to pass them he got a chill up his spine that more than ever made him want to avoid them. He didn't know why he reacted this way. The dead shouldn't scare him. They _didn't_ scare him. Great warriors and kings were laid to rest in the stone tombs of the crypts of Minas Tirith and he had enormous respect for them but he never went down there to pay his respects. Not since he had said his farewells to Legolas that time before the Final Battle. Too many memories encased in marble tombs, perhaps.

Tonight, however, the crypts were exactly where his feet led him, almost against his will.

Every year Eowyn reminded him of the date; the anniversary of Legolas' passing following the battle of Pelennor Fields, and every year he sought to avoid thinking about it, even while the rest of the city set aside the day to grieving for the losses they had sustained during those dreadful days of war and bloodshed. Aragorn always stood with his head bowed in respect as prayers were spoken for the fallen but he never visited the resting place of the one closest to him, even when he knew that others would have been honoured to have a memorial to attend to. It terrified him, facing up to it. Legolas had been his guardian, his mentor, his father, and the pain of losing him still stung as deeply as it ever did. He could not shake it no matter how much time passed and that frightened him in some way.

He knew that Eowyn was correct. Legolas would not be disappointed in him for feeling grief, especially not now that Gondor was safe and protected and the mission to destroy Sauron was done. But he felt like he had betrayed his guardian enough already. So often had he avoided going to the tomb of his father – for that was how Aragorn regarded Legolas now; more father than guardian. To go now- He feared what Legolas would think of him. Would he think him a traitor, a coward? Aragorn could not stand that, he knew.

His footsteps echoed loudly on the stone stairs leading down to the ancient crypts. The walls around him flickered with the orange light of the torches lining the staircase. Aragorn had proposed that many of the dead who rested within these walls had seen too much Darkness in their lives, he could not abide them remaining in the dark for the eternity of their deaths as well. So torches always burned bright here even when no one living was about to appreciate the torchlight. He did not fear the dark. Night was nothing compared to the Darkness he had experienced in the past. In fact, at times he found it almost comforting for it reminded him of simpler times travelling without torchlight. This night, however, he was glad for the flickering light brightening his path.

Legolas' resting place in the underground crypts remained unmarked. Few people came down here anymore, wanting to put the kings of old behind them and focus on the new; and none of the soldiers who had perished in the War had been laid to rest in the ancient crypts of the kings.

There may have been no marker but Aragorn knew well where his guardian rested even though he had not visited in many years. He came to the slab of stone beneath which Legolas laid in peace and ran his fingers along the cold, smooth edge almost reverently.

Legolas would not like it down here, he thought, all but buried beneath the earth, hidden from the elements of a world he loved; but Aragorn could not have bared being separated from his guardian by any great distance. Selfish but necessary for his sanity. Knowing that Legolas was close was of some small comfort.

"I-" he began but really he could think of nothing to say now that he was here.

Shaking his head, he thought of how absurd Legolas would think he was being. There was no point in him being here. Legolas could not hear anything he had to say. He would be talking to a slab of cold stone, nothing more.

Nevertheless, against his better judgement, he remained. "I am sorry." No, that sounded ridiculous. What good would an apology do now? "I am sorry, Legolas," he continued all the same, "that I have not come to you before. I don't know why I have avoided-Eowyn is always nagging at me, every single year but-It doesn't seem right somehow. You here and me- But I suppose you would tell me that you would have it no other way, right? I have to tell you, I don't know yet how to live with that. If you had never met me, you would be alive right now. How can I ever forgive myself for that?"

He looked up, surprised that the words were now coming to him so easily, as though they were simply right. Was this what he had been avoiding for the last five years? He felt suddenly foolish, not for being here, but rather for taking so long to realise that he needed to come.

"I could really do with some guidance right now, Legolas. Gondor is safe and whole once more but I do not yet feel so. I need-" He shook his head again and almost involuntarily fell to his knees, not in prayer but rather in sudden weariness - of body and soul. "I cannot rest yet, Legolas. I thought that when the War was won, when peace was finally upon Arda, that I too could enjoy the rest we have granted my people. That is what you always told me; when peace comes there will be a time for rest for all of those who fought on the side of goodness. But I can find none. Everywhere I look, someone is in need, something needs doing. I would not deny them, not for the world. But I am running out of ways to please them. And then there is…Eowyn-"

He trailed off thoughtfully, wondering what his mentor would think of his relationship with the sister of Eomer. He liked to think that Legolas would be pleased for him. Sometimes he wondered though what Legolas would say of the woman if he knew of his affections for her.

"Of course, you know all about her charms – the way she looked at you for all those years. Doting upon her shining hero come to the rescue. Sometimes I wish she would look at me that way too. Not that I believe her to be indifferent towards me. Far from it, I would hope, given that…that I love her. Would you think me ridiculous for saying that? Probably. But it is true all the same.

"I suppose that you would like to know that I am being well looked after in your absence. Eomer is a knowledgeable and kind advisor who guides me well, although I do not think he will remain in Gondor for too much longer. Soon he will go with his people back to Rohan. He doesn't talk about it before me, but I know he longs for his old home even as he has built one here. Faramir too has left me and returned just across the Plains to Osgiliath, his city. There is much work still to do there before it can be considered truly habitable but he is determined – even more so after the successes of Minas Tirith.

"Ciaran remains with me in the city. He misses you daily, of course. He has been here to visit you often, I think." He ran his fingertips now over the single daisy flower that rested next to Legolas' one white knife that Aragorn had left for his guardian before riding out to Mordor. The other, he had kept for himself. He remembered, when the flower had first popped up in the soil just a few days ago, Ciaran had been delighted and had taken it straight down here as though to show Legolas the achievements of the earth he had helped to tend.

"His mother is here with him now. She arrived from Bree not a month ago, along with all the other Rangers' wives and children who we left behind. You can well imagine the celebrations that went on that night after so long apart! Not that you ever cared for Bree or its people if I recall. Anyway, he seems more at peace with family here. I envy him sometimes. He lost his father but he had so much left to fall back on and I have…nothing. Or so it seems at times. I know, I know; you would berate me if you heard me speaking in such a self-pitying manner." He chuckled softly to the cold air. "But old habits die hard, I suppose.

"Remember your good friend Gimli?" he smiled grimly to himself. "He is travelling now. Of course I wanted him to stay here, continue helping with the rebuilding of Gondor but he has his own home and I think he felt obliged to visit the homeland of his father. Whether he will find any of his own people, I know not. I don't think even he knows if they are alive. But if any people were to weather the terror of the Shadow, surely it must be the Dwarves." His mind went to the look in Gimli's eyes when he had stated his intentions to leave. He had been sad, Aragorn had realised. After all, he had fought hard for the saving of Gondor and had lost his father to the cause. And Aragorn had been sad too. He had even offered to accompany Gimli across the mountains. The idea had been laughed at, however. How could the king leave his kingdom so early into his reign. Nevertheless, Gimli had been touched by the sentiment and swore to return once he had discovered the fate of his people. It was one less friend stood at his side, however, and Aragorn found he missed the Dwarf during his absence.

"Oh, and you were right about Jecha and Sonal. They betrayed me in the end. Halbarad says that every day they seek to repent but Eomer will not allow me to release them from their prison beneath the city, even if I do command them exiled from Gondor and all its lands. He sentenced them to ten years in the jails. I think I would have been more merciful but I find I cannot forgive them for what they have done to me, what could have happened had their plan been successful and they took the Ring. When I think of what I gave up for Jecha's allegiance- Your respect. I can't stand it. I don't know why I ever doubted your wisdom. I am sorry for it.

"I wish you could have been here, Legolas, to share in our victory. I have seen so much since we returned here and I have always wished you by my side for it was your victory too.

"The White Tree, symbol of all Gondor so I am told by Faramir, blossoms even now. We are growing things in the soil under the sunlight, the rivers flow clear and fish are beginning to reappear, there are birds in the sky and animals scurry across the Plains at night. I know you would have loved to have seen all that – just like days of old, I think you would say." Tears trickled from his eyes, rolling their way down his cheeks but he did not care. No one was there to judge him. "And the stars, Legolas." His voice filled with sudden wonder as he remembered nightly looking up into the skies and admiring the pricks of light. "I have seen the stars; shining dots of light in a clear sky so black that I believe it to be infinite. Every chance I get I sit beneath them and think of you. You never got the chance to show me them yourself. I wish you could have. Truly I do.

"But I suppose you sacrificed that for me too. My only comfort is that you got what you always wanted of me. I am king now. A good one, I hope. I strive every day to make the Reunited Kingdoms better than before. Sometimes I think I am failing but someone usually tells me that I am on the right course and you always told me to heed the advice and opinions of my betters – I assume that means Eomer too, although no doubt you would be loath to admit it."

Leaning forward, Aragorn ran his fingers once more over the cold stone.

"I am sorry. I will never ignore this day again. But you know I still think of you even if I do not come here. You're the closest thing I had to a father in all my life. I owe you everything but find I can now give you nothing but my love and respect in return. I'll never forget that again, I promise you.

"Anyway, I should go. Eowyn awaits me for an apology. I got angry at her when she brought my coming here up again. I must go and beg her forgiveness." He smiled then, suddenly feeling more at ease with himself than he had in a long time, not unlike when he had finally given up the burden of the One Ring in Mount Doom. Everything felt lighter now that he had acknowledged the shadow that had clouded his days and he wondered why he had avoided it for so long. This was not so terrible, after all.

With one last caress of the stone before him, Aragorn, King of the Reunited Kingdoms of Men, climbed to his feet. "Goodbye. I will not be so long in coming next time, Father."

**OIOI**

**Minas Tirith…Eight Years Later…**

Arda could never be the same following the Final War. It was impossible to expect it to be. The time of the Elves was long over. No one knew if any from that ancient race even still walked Middle Earth but they were certain that no Elf had ever approached the Reunited Kingdoms of Men and they did not seek them out. If the Elves were still around and wanted to keep to themselves, Aragorn judged that it was not the place of the people of Gondor to force them out of hiding. They had suffered enough already at the hands of the Shadow and the King of Gondor was not in the habit of forcing a people's alliance.

Occasionally, the enormity of his task to restore the world of Men tended to overwhelm him but the King Aragorn stood firm against any threat their newly founded kingdom and alliances faced. Such moments of danger had become few and far between now. There remained Enemy factions throughout the vast lands of Middle Earth, of course. It would be impossible to eradicate them all from Arda. But no longer did they attempt to overwhelm the forces of Gondor. In fact, some had even been persuaded to join the Reunited Kingdoms, a federation of kingdoms dedicated to peace that now included Gondor itself; Rohan, ruled now by Lord Eomer; and Harad, although relations with the latter remained disconcertingly fragile as that race was divided into tribes, each with their own leaders, a few of whom were still allied to the ways of the Shadow, the divide caused constant friction and in-fighting and for a long time they had feared all out civil war.

Aragorn made no attempt to go to war with these people or interfere with their internal politics. So long as they posed no threat to those under the banner of the King then he did not worry about where they placed their allegiance. He could not force them to join his coalition. For the most part, he felt confident that they would not attempt to attack the Reunited Kingdoms.

Numbers of Enemy soldiers were diligently kept down, with the Rangers, both those captained by Halbarad and those formally under Kinnale, frequently venturing out into the lands and taking out any patrols of Orcs or Uruk-hai that caused problems. Aragorn soon became convinced that there was no longer any great threat from the creatures formally from Mordor. They were scattered and leaderless for the most part and sought only to let their presence be known. No great attack was ever launched on the White City, their numbers were too few and their ranks in constant discord. Still, Gondor's Council were adamant, and Aragorn concurred wholeheartedly with them, that their numbers be constantly monitored. Despite the cleansing of Evil from the world, some people still feared an uprising and they all knew that that couldn't be allowed to happen. They had overcome the Shadow once but at a terrible price – one they could not afford to pay again.

Many Men formally outcast from the realms of Men sought sanctuary within the borders of Gondor and Aragorn allowed it, encouraged it even. Some were the feared Wild Men. Having spent the years roaming the wilds of Arda barely scratching out a living by whatever means they could, word had finally spread of somewhere permanent where they could settle without fear of recrimination for their past actions, no matter how reprehensible they may have been. Aragorn understood that they had been desperate in the wastes of Arda and asked only that they keep the peace and that no violence was to take place within the boundaries of Gondor. At times, these rules were broken and action against the guilty parties had to be taken, but for the most part they were upheld by any visitors.

Aragorn didn't know whether the world resembled what it had once been. His only references had been in Rivendell and his memory of those stunning frescos upon the walls of Rivendell was too faded to be certain. But he knew in his mind and heart how he wished for it to look. It was hardly perfect even after years of hard toil and recovery. But all understood that a land so scarred with war, famine and destruction could not quickly recover from the evils it had endured. But Gondor's people worked hard to make it the best it could be. With every small victory, they gained something, whether it be land renewed or a new ally to add to the growing list of those loyal to the Reunited Kingdoms.

Despite this peace, in Mordor, evil yet dwelled. The Men's exploratory expeditions into the Black Lands revealed that many of the Orcs that had escaped slaughter on the day of the final battle had retreated there but they were still leaderless and Aragorn knew that they would prove no threat to the growing might of Gondor and her affiliates. Still, he had learned enough over the years not to become complacent. Gondor's army was kept strong and well-supplied, ready for any uprising or rebellion from those countries who still refused a treaty of peace. That he would never again have to ride into battle was Aragorn's most fervent hope but he was prepared to do so nonetheless.

The first yield of crops from the farmlands led to nationwide celebrations. Although it was a relatively poor yield in terms of return for work, it was more than anyone had ever seen before and a cause for much festivities. After that first hurdle had been overcome things became gradually easier. The people from Bree knew somewhat about farming having had moderate success over the years and they honed their techniques until food was relatively easy to come by and rationing was relaxed a little.

Homes were rebuilt. Gondor flourished. The first shops trading in clothing and food and treats opened in the small establishments dotted around mainly the first and second levels of the city. Much trade was done between Gondor and its related countries. Rohan began breeding its horses again and soon the first foal was born to Gondor. It was the king's steed although Eowyn had laughed when after a month he had still yet to even see it due to the vast amount of people who every day came to gawp at the wonder.

Prosperous and fair Gondor became once more under the reign of its victorious king. Neither the people nor the land would forget the terrible years of all out war with the Shadow. It would mar their lives and the lives of generations to come. They could not blot out the Darkness that had stolen away their families, left thousands bereft of family. But they could strive to build on the hope the fallen had given them. With the leaders they had followed into battle leading the charge into peace and prosperity, confidence grew day by day.

Once a year, they publically remembered those who had given their lives for the peace they now enjoyed. On the streets people gathered, offering flowers to a burning pyre in memory of the soldiers and non-combatants who had died in the War. It was always a solemn day. There was no feasting, no celebration, just quiet, respectful remembrance.

As well as remembering their own personal losses and mourning them, they also gave thanks to the great commanders who had given their lives. This was an especially poignant day for the king himself and he was often seen lost in the throes of grief as he spoke of the great deeds of Kinnale, Janor and Legolas and many more besides. They owed much to these pioneers of peace; Men who had sacrificed everything to bring Aragorn to the throne of Gondor and grant the world a reprieve from the Shadow.

Despite this blot on their good cheer and optimism, the people endured, overcoming whatever was put in their way. Determination granted them much return and the joyous days became ever more common as time moved on.

The first prince of Gondor was born eight years after the end of the Final War to King Aragorn and the Lady Eowyn. Thousands of well-wishers turned out to see and celebrate the new-born, hailed as the next great King of the Reunited Kingdoms and herald of the Fourth Age of Man. For they knew that so long as young Eldarion followed in the footsteps of his beloved father then the realm of Gondor – and all of Middle Earth – would flourish for Ages to come.

**The End.**


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